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LIB  R  ARY 

OF   THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA. 

GIKT     OF" 


Received 
Accessions  No.  *>Q_  I  o  3 


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. 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING 


A  STORY  OF   THE  CAUCASUS— 
RUSSO-TURKISH  WAR 


BY 

RICHARD    HENRY   SAVAGE 

AUTHOR    OF 

"MY  OFFICIAL  WIFE" 

"THE  LITTLE  LADY  OF  LAGUNITAS  " 

ETC.,  ETC. 


NEW  YORK 

THE  TRADE  SUPPLIED  BY 

THE   AMERICAN   NEWS   COMPANY 
1892 


£  o  1 6  3 

COPYRIGHT,  1892,  BY 
RICHARD  HENRY  SAVAGE. 

(All  rights  reserved.) 


Press  of  J.  J.  Little  &  Co. 
Astor  Place,  New  York 


CONTENTS. 
BOOK  I. 


PRINCE    CHARMING    AND    THE    ROSE    OF    TIFLIS. 

PAGE 

CHAPTER  I. — The  Mess-Room  of  the  Guard 
Uhlans. — Children  of  the  Flag. 
—  Coming  War  Clouds. — A 
Princely  Judas,  -  7 

"  II. — Brothers  no  more.— At  the  Turk 

ish  Ambassador's  Ball.  —  A 
Royal  Deserter.  —  Diplomatic 
Spider-Webs,  -  -  25 

"  III.— In  the  Cavalry  School.— Called 

by  Gortschakoff.  —  Dimitri's 
Doom. — In  the  Golden  Horn,  -  42 

«  IV.— The  White  Countess's  Boudoir.— 

With  General  Ignatief  in  Con 
stantinople. — Where  is  your 
Brother?— On  the  Bridge  of 
Karakein,  -  -62 


BOOK   II. 

THE    DESERTER. — CROSS    AGAINST    CRESCENT. 

CHAPTER  V. — A  Stormy  Interview. — The  Rose 
of  Tiflis. — Schamyl's  Quest. — 
The  White  Cross  of  the  Grand 
Duke,  -  -  91 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER      VI. — Missing. — Under  the   Shadows  of 

Ararat. — A  Mother's  Memory,  -  117 
"          VII. — Tcherkess  against  Kurd. — An  Old 

Friend  with  a  New  Name,         -  136 
VIII.— Abdallah's  Ruse.— Schamyl's  Spy 

in  Kars,   -  -  ic8 

IX.— In  the  Wolf's  Den.— Kars.— The 
Message  of  the  Rose. — Ahmed, 
my  Lover  !  -  177 


BOOK   III. 

WINNING    THE    ROSE. 

CHAPTER       X. — The     Cannons      Speak. — Hassan 
Bey's  Message. — Moussa's  Bat 
tle  in  the  Night. — Face  to  Face. 
-Turns    of    the     Tide.— The 
Medjidieh  Redoubt,  -  203 

"  XL— The  Storming   of    Kars.— At  the 

Armenian  Convent. — Old  Has 
san's  Faith. — Ghazee's  Flight. 
— Safe  at  Last  !  -  230 

"  XII. — Beyond  the  Danube. — Victory. — 
'Constantinople. —  G  r  o  n  o  w '  s 
Warning. — The  English  Fleet. 
— On  the  Verge. — Peace  at 
Last. — Schamyl's  Vision,  -  -  258 

"  XIII.— By  the  Neva.— Ghazee's  Revenge  ! 
—At  the  Opera.— The  Lost 
Handkerchief. — Dr.  Abdallah,  -  283 

"  XIV. — Home  Again. — In  the  Orbelian 
Palace. — Finding  a  Sister. — 
The  Opening  of  the  Neva,  -  301 
XV.— An  Emperor's  Gift.— The  Brides 
of  Dargo. — Tidings  of  Ghazee. 
—A  Last  Shot.— Under  the 
White  Tower.—  Treasure- 
Trove. — Kismet,  -  324 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING 

A  STORY  OF  THE  RUSSO-TURKISH  WAR. 


BOOK  I. 

PRINCE  CHARMING  AND  THE  ROSE 
OF   TIFLIS. 


CHAPTER   I. 

THE  MESS-ROOM  OF  THE  GUARD  UHLANS.— CHIL 
DREN  OF  THE  FLAG.— COMING  WAR  CLOUDS.— 
A  PRINCELY  JUDAS. 

"  HURRAH  for  Suleiman  Effendi ! 

Glasses  crash.  The  walls  ring  again  to  the  guards 
men's  cheers.  Foaming  wine  flows  in  rivers  of 
gladness  ! 

First  in  bonhomie,  the  dare-devil  Uhlans  of  the 
Imperial  Guard  are  the  gayest  mess  in  all  mad  St. 
Petersburg.  Just  a  "  good-by  "  breakfast  to  "  Cap 
tain  Suleiman,"  who  has  won  all  hearts  while  serv 
ing  as  Military  Attache  of  the  Turkish  Embassy  ! 
A  dozen  of  the  daredevil  Russian  Uhlans  surround 
the  jolliest  little  Turk  who  ever  smoked  a  chibouque. 


8  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

It  is  a  fateful  time.  December  snows  whirl  down 
in  great  cottony  flakes  without.  Merry-jingling  bells 
tinkle  as  the  troikas  fly  by.  The  city  by  the  Neva 
is  in  the  high  tide  of  its  winter  social  splendor. 

A  general  restlessness  of  the  conquest-craving 
Muscovites  gives  "  £lan  "  to  a  season  of  feverish 
gayety.  This  is  1876;  the  Conference  of  Constan 
tinople  wearies  along  at  the  never-ending  task  of 
patching  up  the  elastic  map  of  Turkey  ! 

Peter's  Town  is  filled  with  the  "  cream  of  the 
army."  There  is  a  flavor  of  "  war "  everywhere. 
Mobilization  is  the  pivot  of  all  gossip.  When  these 
falling  snows  shall  pass  away,  the  tramp  of  the 
legions  of  the  White  Czar  will  shake  the  land.  But, 
in  the  mess-room  of  the  Uhlans,  only  hospitality 
reigns.  Beside  the  rich  board  (through  clouds  of 
smoke)  and  over  the  vari-colored  wine  glasses,  gallant 
faces  beam  kindly  on  that  gay  Moslem,  "  Sulei 
man." 

His  embassy  will  soon  be  gravely  wending  its 
way  toward  the  Bosporus — ushered  forth  with  hol 
low  Slavic  official  courtesy.  Captain  Suleiman  has 
his  summons  to  report  at  once  in  Constantinople. 
He  will  be  a  cyclopaedia  of  valuable  information  at 
the  Turkish  War  Office. 

In  his  diplomatic  sejour  of  three  years,  Suleiman 
gathered  hosts  of  friends.  A  bright-eyed,  merry 
man,  a  capital  rider,  a  game  "  bon  vivant,"  and  a 
charming  host ! 

His  red  fez  has  added  a  point  of  flaming  color  to 
many  a  dazzling  fete.  Calmly  he  engulfs  the  wine 
of  Shiraz,  and  eke  that  of  Roederer. 

He  can  twist  a  papyrus,  tell  a  story,  and  criticise 


PRINCE    SCHAMYL  S    WOOING.  9 

the  ankles  of  the  unsurpassed  ballet  with  any  of  the 
"  jeunesse  dore"e  "  of  the  Guards. 

Though  Suleiman  dances  not,  he  has  an  extensive 
acquaintance  with  the  voluptuous  priestesses  of  the 
"  opera  coulisses." 

In  short,  a  Turk  a  la  mode — whatever  slips  from 
the  orthodox  Islamism  his  easy  nature  has  brought 
about,  he  piously  regards  a  diplomatic  sacrifice  to  his 
country's  "  interests." 

Sighing  to  think  of  his  last  passage  over  the  hair- 
like  bridge  of  Al  Sirat,  he  drowns  these  gloomy 
presages  of  conscience  in  the  soul-entrancing  wine. 
Reverently  he  murmurs,  "  Mashallah  !  Bismillah  !  " 

He  is  beloved  of  the  Uhlan  circle.  He  has  taught 
many  a  gay  Muscovite  rider  a  trick  or  two  picked 
up  on  the  Armenian  plains.  He  is  "  a  soldier  every 
inch  of  him."  .  .  .  Yet  a  Turk  !  a  Turk  ! 

Suleiman  raises  his  glass,  and  (in  the  easy  French 
of  his  adopted  calling)  invokes  the  blessing  of  Allah 
upon  the  friendly  circle  of  swordsmen. 

The  train  is  making  up  now  at  the  Moscow  sta 
tion,  which  will  bear  him  flying  homeward  via 
Odessa. 

Thence  the  steamer  will  waft  him  over  the  Eux- 
ine  to  the  romantic  shores  of  the  Golden  Horn. 

This  Moslem  is  affected  in  his  heart  of  hearts. 
Will  he  meet  the  brave  Uhlans  next  in  the  swamps 
of  the  Danube. or  on  the  plains  of  Armenia? 

ItMS  the  "  fortune  of  war"  with  his  friends.  To 
Suleiman  Effendi  it  is  Kismet. 

There  is  a  suspicious  sparkle  in  his  eye  as  he 
grasps  each  outstretched  hand.  All  the  morning 
there  has  been  an  exchange  of  tokens.  A  cigarette 


io  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

case  here,  a  dagger  there — all  the  little  trifles  of 
cameraderie  at  parting.  .  .  . 

When  the  grave  mess-steward  announces  Sulei 
man's  sleigh,  he  rises.  Now  he  fights  his  way  to 
the  door  with  a  last  warm  cry : 

"  Au  revoir,  mes  freres  !  "  "  Bonnes  chances  aux 
braves!  Vivent  les  Uhlans!" 

Pausing  in  the  arched  entrance  of  the  great  mess- 
hall,  he  throws  his  arms  around  a  young  giant,  and 
whispers  in  Turkish  a  few  words. 

The  three  black  orloffs  dash  away  with  a  wild 
clash  of  their  bells.  Suleiman  is  "  en  route." 

Gathered  around  the  smoking-table,  the  knot  of 
officers  indulge  in  those  incomparable  cigarettes — 
the  delight  of  the  Russian. 

In  this  glittering  circle  no  one  is  peer  to  the 
stately  Mohammed  Ahmed  Sckamyl,  who  seats  him 
self  in  silence  as  he  enters  with  Suleiman's  last 
words  ringing  in  his  ears. 

Prince  Schamyl's  dark  eyes  gleam  with  strange 
tenderness  as  he  takes  a  cigarette  from  his  old  chum 
in  the  Corps  des  Pages,  Paul  Platoff,  a  dashing  cap 
tain  of  horse  artillery  of  the  Guard. 

Schamyl  is  the  only  member  of  the  Uhlan  mess 
who  is  at  once  a  Russian  officer  and  a  Moslem  born. 

Indescribably  haughty  and  graceful  in  his  bearing, 
Ahmed  Schamyl  retains  the  charm  of  the  wild  Cir 
cassian  mountains  in  whose  snow-crested  gorges  he 
was  nurtured. 

The  youngest  son  of  the  great  warrior  Sultan 
Schamyl  of  Daghestan,  his  twenty-seven  years  of  life 
in  camp  and  court  have  been  busy.  Tall,  dark, 
with  flashing,  brilliant  eyes — as  lissome  as  a  panther, 


PRINCE   SCHAMYL  S   WOOING.  II 

the  young  major  bravely  bears  his  splendid  Cir 
cassian  uniform  of  the  Imperial  Personal  Body 
Guard. 

It  needs  not  the  silver  cartridge  cases,  heavy  jew 
elled  belt  dagger,  and  the  Damascus  "  chaska  "  in 
its  rich  sheath,  with  the  natty  astrakhan  turban,  to 
indicate  the  caged  "  Prince  of  the  Caucasus." 

While  Platoff  and  his  friends  pledge  the  success 
of  the  coming  war,  Ahmed  Schamyl's  mind  wan 
ders  away  to  a  stirring  future  hidden  yet  by  the 
smoke  wreaths  of  battlefields  nearing  every  day. 

The  "  good-by "  of  little  Suleiman,  whose  em 
bassy  is  practically  closed,  grieves  this  alien  soldier 
of  the  Czar. 

Back  from  the  past,  with  all  its  record  of  early  life 
in  Page  Corps  and  cadet  school  (long  before  he  had 
learned  to  whisper  burning  words  to  the  spirited 
maids  of  honor  in  the  Winter  Palace),  comes  the 
memory  of  the  day,  when,  as  a  lad  of  nine,  he  clung 
to  his  mighty  father  as  he  proudly  descended  from 
the  eagle-nest  of  "  Aul  Gunib." 

Thirty  years  of  bitterest  war  against  Russia  ended 
when  the  Prophet-Chief  of  the  Caucasus  surrendered 
to  the  chivalric  Prince  Baryatinsky. 

Ahmed  Schamyl  remembers  well  his  august  father, 
now  lying  dead  at  Medina,  among  the  holy  shrines 
of  the  great  Mohammed. 

His  mother  .  .  .  Ah !  Perhaps,  in  the  war 
cloud  which  is  drifting  toward  him,  some  flash  of 
strange  light  will  tell  him  of  that  sweet-faced  woman 
who  is  only  a  hallowed  fairy  of  his  childhood  days, 
"  la  dame  blanche." 

In  his  regimental  mess-room,  surrounded  by  the 


12  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

gay  comrades  of  his  later  days,  strange  fancies 
haunt  the  mind  of  the  noble  Circassian  soldier. 

He  has  dearly  loved  the  man  who  left  him  but  a 
few  moments  past.  In  a  short  military  apprentice 
ship  in  the  Caucasus  years  gone  by,  at  Tiflis,  he  met 
Suleiman,  whose  father  was  a  Pacha  at  Erzeroum. 
Many  a  lively  day  of  chase  by  the  rolling  Kura, 
many  happy  hours  listening  to  the  old  legends  of 
Georgia,  Armenia,  and  Anatolia,  cemented  a  friend 
ship,  renewed,  when,  as  captain  of  the  Etat-Major, 
"  Suleiman  "  came  to  St.  Petersburg  "  en  diplo- 
mate."  His  Turkish  comrade  is  gone. 

Ahmed  Schamyl  quaffs  the  regimental  loving  cup, 
but  his  heart  is  sad.  Suleiman's  last  whisper  thrills 
him  yet. 

"  We  will  be  brothers,  Ahmed  !  even  if  we  meet 
on  the  field,  sword  in  hand  !  " 

Thus  old  friends  meet  as  new  foes  under  warring 
flags! 

Suleiman's  blade  will  flash  under  the  crescent! 
Ahmed  (a  royal-born  warrior-prince),  of  a  prophet- 
sire,  who  was  a  Moslem  of  the  Moslems,  will  head 
his  undaunted  Circassians  under  the  Greek  cross, 
and  fight  for  the  Czar  ! 

Paul  Platoff's  laughing  challenge  rouses  him. 

"Dine  with  me,  Ahmed!  We  will  go  and  hear 
the  gypsies  sing  to-night.  They  have  some  new 
beauties." 

Schamyl  agrees.  Anything  is  better  than  this 
rattling  round  of  wild  "  shop  "  talk. 

Fast  and  furious  grows  the  fun.  On  all  sides 
would-be  generals  are  settling  the  diplomatic  mys 
teries  of  the  exciting  hour. 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  13 

"  Constantinople  Conference,"  "  Allied  Powers," 
"  Bismarck,"   "  English    Fleet,"   "  Balkan    Passes," 
"  Ignatief's    policy,"    "  Gortschakoff's    demands  "- 
all    these    stock  phrases  mingle  with  the  rattle    of 
dice  and  the  chat  of  the  social  hour. 

Young  Schamyl  sees  the  faces  of  his  brother  offi 
cers  gravely  peering  through  smoke  wreaths,  as 
they  grapple  with  the  unsolved  Eastern  question. 
Blood  may  solve  it,  but  not  talk.  Making  his  way 
through  the  friendly  throng — for  he  is  not  on  duty — 
Schamyl  grasps  cloak,  sabre,  and  turban.  Platoff  s 
sleigh  bears  them  both  to  the  artillery  caserne. 

Throwing  himself  idly  down  on  a  fur  couch,  the 
moody  prince  gazes  on  his  Russian  "  brother  of  the 
heart." 

Paul's  rifle  battery  will  probably  join  the  heavy 
invading  columns  of  the  Danube  army.  The  gen 
eral  plans  are  divined  by  the  initiated. 

Himself — he    is    only  "  a   leaf    in   the    storm  "• 
whither  will  he  drift  ?     No  one  knows. 

"  Ahmed,"  begins  Platoff,  "I  wanted  to  have  a 
serious  talk  with  you.  I  heard  a  rumor  to-day  at 
the  Galitzins,  which  I  did  not  like  at  all." 

"Well?"  slowly  speaks  the  Circassian,  as  he 
draws  mighty  puffs  from  his  chibouque. 

"  It  relates  to  your  brother,  Prince  Ghazee,"  con 
tinues  the  artilleryman. 

Schamyl's  brow  instantly  darkens.  He  knows,  in 
the  lonely  bitterness  of  his  secret  heart,  he  has  no 
real  brother.  For  "  Jamal-Eddin,"  the  oldest  of 
great  Schamyl's  sons,  lies  dead  under  the  drifted 
sands  far  away  in  Armenia.  He  clung  a  devotee  to 
the  Turkish  service ;  dying  a  Moslem  as  true  as 


14  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

ever  listened  to  the  muezzin's  call  from  airy  height. 
Him  the  young  guardsman  remembers  but  dimly. 

For  when  his  warrior  father  came  down  from  his 
inaccessible  eyrie  at  Gunib,  in  "  fifty-nine,"  and 
sheathed  his  sword  forever,  Jamal-Eddin  did  not 
join  the  train  accompanying  the  defeated  warrior  to 
his  refuge  at  Kaluga  in  the  land  of  the  White  Czar. 
Golden  captivity  had  no  charms  for  Jamal-Eddin. 

Ahmed  recalls  the  splendid  state  in  which  the  old 
king  of  the  Caucasus  spent  his  exile,  far  from  the 
romantic  land  of  the  "  Thirty-five  Years'  War." 

It  is  now  six  long  years  since  the  fiery  captive 
hero  asked  the  Czar  the  last  boon  of  going  forth  in 
his  old  age  to  Arabia,  to  die  beside  the  tomb  of  the 
great  Prophet  at  the  Holy  Cities. 

His  brother  !  Then  it  is  surely  "  Ghazee  Moham 
med  "  the  Guardsman — brother  only  in  name. 

"What  of  my  brother?"  coldly  queries  the 
princely  .youth. 

"  Several  general  officers  were  there — all  growl 
ing  over  the  coming  campaign.  They  hate  so  sud 
denly  to  leave  these  lovely  witches  of  society  and 
of — the  ballet,"  said  Platoff  with  a  sneer.  "  Your 
brother  was  named.  I  caught  a  few  words.  Old 
Lazareff  said  he  would  not  be  trusted  with  any 
command." 

"  Why  ?  "  demands  Schamyl,  fiercely,  half  starting 
up. 

"Because  his  relations  with  Countess  Nadya 
Vronsky  are  too  well  known," 

"  And  ?  " — Schamyl's  eyes  are  very  eager. 

"  I  don't  know  where  Vronsky  picked  her  up. 
He's  dead  and  gone,  poor  fellow  !  But  she  was  from 


PRINCE   SCHAMYL'S   WOOING.  15 

the  Balkans  somewhere.     I  am  told  she  is  the  main 
stay  of   the   Turkish   chargt  d'affaires  in    all 
intrigues— a  dangerous  bit  of  dimity." 

Schamyl  paces  the  long  room  like  a  tiger. 
Platoff  quietly  resumes. 

«  I  wanted  you  to  know  what  is  going  around. 
It  may  hurt  you  in  your  chances  for  separate  com 
mand." 

«  How  can  it  hurt  me,  Paul?"  demands  Ahmed. 
"  They  say,"  replies  Platoff,  "  that  a  great  uprising 
in  the  Caucasus  will  be  the  Turkish  stroke  in  our 
rear  ;  that  the  great  Schamyl's  son  will  lead  the 
Moslems.  He  is  to  be  made  Chief  Pacha  of  Arme 
nia  as  a  reward  !  " 

Ahmed's    eyes  are    blazing   like   a   lion   at    bay. 
«  They  claim  he  will  desert  and  betray  the  Czar, 
he  hisses.     "  Is  that  the  lie  ?" 

-Exactly  so,  Ahmed,"  kindly  rejoins  Platoff. 
«  I  knew  you  ought  to  hear  this  at  once.  You  can 
trust  me,  Prince,  can  you  not  ?  " 

"To  the  death,  Paul!"  Schamyl  answers,  as  he 
measures  the  room  with  the  light  stride  of  a  wolf 
of  the  Ukraine. 

There  is  silence.     The  deep  boom  of  the  giant 
bells  of  St.  Isaac's  breaks  the  stillness.     It  is  a  feast 
day.     Fifty-two  Sundays  and  the  same  number  < 
feast  days  make  an  agreeable  change  in  the  Mus 
covite  year.      This  is  a  masterly  stroke  of  Russian 

"  tyranny." 

Ahmed  places  his  hands  on  Pauls  shoulders. 
«  Look  here,  Platoff,  I  will  trust  you.  I  am  going 
to  see  this  man.  Before  I^do,  I  will  give  you  my 
heart.  I  want  your  advice." 


16  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

"  Sit  down,  Ahmed!  Tell  me  what  you  wish," 
answers  Paul.  He  pities  the  young  prince's  out 
raged  honor.  Ahmed's  eyes  are  hopeless. 

Both  sons  of  Schamyl  wear  the  Czar's  uniform. 
"  Noblesse  oblige."  Schamyl  a  warrior — yes  !  But 
a  traitor  and  deserter — never  ! 

Ahmed  raises  his  head  from  his  hands  after  a 
moment's  thought.  He  speaks  partly  to  himself. 

"  I  am  not  like  the  others.  My  father  was  a 
great  soldier,  priest,  king,  and  open  rebel.  He  was 
born  on  the  glittering  crests  of  the  peaks  of  uncon- 
quered  Daghestan.  He  fought  for  his  own  land. 

"  Forty  long  years  the  cannon's  roar  and  the  crash 
of  volleys  echoed  through  the  lovely  valleys  of  Cir- 
cassia. 

"  Four  times  he  drove  great  Russian  invading 
armies  back  in  defeat  and  gloom.  When  he  came 
down  from  Gunib  and  took  a  soldier's  oath  to 
Baryatinsky,  the  honor  of  the  family  was  then 
engaged.  The  Czar  Nicholas  kept  faith.  The 
Emperor  Alexander  has  done  the  same.  My 
father  lived  like  a  king  ;  the  great  Czar  allowed  him 
to  go  and  die  like  a  prophet  on  holy  ground." 

Platoff  nods  assent. 

"You  know,  Paul,  this  gloomy,  middle-aged,  red 
bearded  conspirator  has  nothing  in  common  with 
me.  The  Czar  has  educated  us  as  reigning  princes, 
attached  us  to  his  court,  and  preserved  our  personal 
wealth.  There  will  be  one  Schamyl  to  draw  a 
sword  loyally  under  our  flag!  I  must  save  the 
family  honor  !  "  Schamyl's  eyes  blaze  in  rage. 

"  Thank  God,  Ahmed  !  you  speak  like  a  man," 
cries  Paul,  with  joy  at  his  heart. 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  17 

"  I  never  knew  my  mother,"  softly  says  Ahmed. 
"  Schamyl's  three  sons  had  each  a  different  mother. 
1  sometimes  think  there  is  a  mystery  held  back, 
Paul !  I  am  dark,  like  a  Georgian.  My  father  was 
light  of  hair  and  eyes. 

"  Ghazee  has  held  himself  aloof  from  me  for 
years.  In  fact,  we  have  been  strangers  since  our 
father  died.  He  does  know  of  my  birth,  but  hates 
me  cordially,  I  fear.  He  is  silent.  He  has  no  heart 
to  give  any  one.  My  father  had  his  mystic  dreams, 
his  wild  exaltations,  and  all  his  dark  secrets  died  with 
him.  Of  course,  you  know,  Paul,  he  had  several 
living  wives,  a  la  Turque." 

Platoff  bows. 

"  I  think  my  blood  may  bring  my  loyalty  from 
the  weaker  side,  perhaps  from  a  Russian  mother. 
Who  knows?  " 

Ahmed's  eyes  are  dreamy.  His  thoughts  fly 
away  to  the  grand  old  Pontic  realm,  where  the  giant 
peaks  of  Ararat  and  Kasbek  buttress  the  blue 
skies  with  their  silvery,  massy  crests. 

"  Have  you  ever  thoroughly  questioned  old  Ser 
geant  Hassan?"  interpolates  Paul. 

Ahmed  starts. 

"  Useless  !  He  is  a  gloomy  old  man,  half  pagan, 
half  Moslem. 

"  When  he  came  back  from  Medina,  after  my 
father's  death,  he  attached  himself  to  my  person. 
He  must  know  all,  for  he  fought  twenty  years  at 
my  father's  side.  I  think  he  knew  my  mother. 
He  carried  me  in  his  arms  on  some  of  our  re 
treats. 

"  On   my  hunting   trip  to  the  Caucasus  (after  I 


1 8  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

left  the  cadet  school),  he  showed  me  all  the  scenes 
of  my  father's  campaigns. 

"  When  I  would  question  him,  the  sergeant 
always  growled  : 

" '  I  have  sworn  on  the  Sultan's  amulet.'  He 
would  go  no  further." 

"  But  he  is  in  your  power  now,"  eagerly  cries 
Paul. 

"  True,"  rejoins  Ahmed,  "  yet  he  loves  me.  He 
would  not  serve  Ghazee,  though  he  gave  him  the 
sacred  amulet  my  father  carried  in  the  fifty  pitched 
battles  as  a  holy  charm. 

"  My  sire  was  a  mystic  seer. 

"You  know  his  gloomy  ascendency  over  his 
warriors,  devotees,  or  dupes  as  you  might  call  them. 
He  deposited  some  Arabic  scrolls  for  Ghazee,  with 
his  last  wishes.  He  sent  him  this  sacred  amulet,  on 
which  his  followers  swore  that  awful  oath  of  the 
old  fire-worshippers,  and  with  it  the  message, 

'  REMEMBER  ! ' 

"  Ghazee,  my  stony-hearted  brother,  is  twenty 
years  older  than  I  am.  When  I  spoke  on  these 
matters  to  him,  he  turned  on  his  heel,  ejaculating; 
*  I  have  nothing  to  tell  you.'  His  eyes  are  fixed  on 
a  shadowy  crown.  The  old  sergeant  has  been  a 
faithful  henchman  to  me.  It  is  strange,  Paul,  he 
clings  to  me  yet.  I  am  not  a  Mohammedan  in  faith, 
as  you  know." 

Paul  crosses  himself  piously. 

"  Old  Hassan  is  a  stern  Moslem.  He  is  true  to 
Prophet  Schamyl's  dying  command,  yet  serves  his 
Christian  son,  and  will  not  obey  the  head  of  our 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  19 

once  royal  house,  Ghazee,  the  Russian-bred  Mos 
lem. 

"  I  wonder,  dear  Paul,"  Ahmed  sadly  concluded, 
"  whether  my  stray  bullet  will  come  along  before  I 
pierce  this  mystery.  The  war  will  be  on  us  as  soon 
as  spring  grass  peeps  out  on  the  southern  plains." 

"  Prince,"  replies  Paul  Platoff,  "  I  am  touched 
with  your  loneliness,  yet  we  talk  now  of  our  duty, 

"  You  must  begin  to  unravel  this  knot.  See 
Ghazee — at  least  prevent  him  disgracing  the  name 
of  Schamyl.  Do  not  let  him  be  a  deserter  and 
a  fugitive.  Think  of  your  prospects,  your  own 
future  command,  the  succession  to  the  Caucasus, 
as  its  chieftain  of  the  sword. 

"  You  have  spoken  nobly  here,  Ahmed.  You 
alone  can  save  the  honor  of  the  name  of  Sultan 
Schamyl.  It  has  given  you  as  royal  a  heritage  as 
that  of  the  Hapsburgs,  Hohenzollerns,  or  even  the 
Romanoffs — a  heritage  of  glory." 

"  I  thank  you,  Paul,"  cries  Ahmed.  "  I  will  seek 
Ghazee  to-night.  .  .  .  Where  are  his  haunts  now  ?  " 

"  Ah  !  that  is  the  most  compromising  thing.  The 
Turkish  Charge,  Countess  Nadya  Vronsky,  and 
Prince  Ghazee  Mohammed  Schamyl  are  a  plotting 
triumvirate.  Don't  go  in  there.  We  had  Captain 
Suleiman  to-day  at  dejeuner.  Remember  how  you 
might  be  suspected.  Not  too  much  Turkish  friend 
ship  !  " 

"True,"  gloomily  replies  Ahmed.  "This  is  the 
icy  land  of  Doubt  and  Distrust.  I  will  drive  up 
with  my  sleigh  after  dinner,  and  see  him.  You 
shall  know  all." 

Paul   Platoff's  maitre  d'hotel   announces  dinner. 


20  PRINCE    SCHAMYL  S   WOOING. 

It  is  a  masterpiece,  "  en  petite  comite,"  for  Platoff, 
of  an  old  Boyar  family,  is  a  "  rara  avis,"  noble  yet 
not  a  prince,  Russian  and  yet  no  prodigal. 

Ahmed's  face  brightens  as  the  two  friends  run 
over  the  chances  of  the  campaign.  Bulgaria,  Servia, 
Bosnia,  Herzegovina,  the  Danube  advance — all  are 
canvassed.  Black  Sea  complications  and  the  great 
Asiatic  struggle  in  the  Caucasus,  Anatolia,  Georgia, 
and  Armenia,  conned  with  eager  eyes. 

"  This  time  we  will  take  and  keep  Kars,  Batoum, 
and  Erzeroum,"  Ahmed  prophesies. 

Platoff  merrily  drains  his  glass.  "  True,  cher  ami, 
the  Emperor  needs  a  road  to  Baku  and— 

"Turkistan,"  finishes  Schamyl,  with  a  grim  fore 
thought  of  that  great  future  struggle  for  the  heart 
of  Asia,  Persia  and  India,  which  will  swing  England 
and  Russia  yet  into  a  war  "  a  1'outrance." 

"  You  ought  to  serve  in  your  own  land,  Ahmed," 
says  Platoff,  thoughtfully.  "  You  know  the  frontier 
well." 

"  I  know  every  gorge  and  valley  from  the  great 
pass  of  the  Elburz,  from  sea  to  sea,  and  as  far  as 
our  eagles  will  soar — for  we  must  stop  now  at  Tre- 
bizond." 

"  Why  so  ?  "  interjects  Platoff. 

"  England,"  sententiously  rejoins  the  Circassian. 

"Try  thisChambertin,"  hospitably  commands  the 
gunner.  "  I  pledge  you  one  toast." 

Ahmed's  eyes  are  inquiring  vaguely.  There  is  a 
roguish  smile  on  Paul's  face  as  he  answers : 

"Maritza,  the  Rose  of  Tiflis." 

"With  hearty  good-will,"  is  Ahmed's  response. 

They  both  know  the  Princess  Maritza.     Among 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  21 

the  noble  beauties  of  the  Catherine  Institute,  none 
has  ever  surpassed  the  budding  Georgian  heiress 
of  the  great  house  of  Deshkalin. 

With  two  lovely  patrician  girls  of  her  own  age, 
this  beauty  of  the  Trans-Caucasus  was  sent  to  St. 
Petersburg  in  charge  of  the  wife  of  the  governor  of 
the  great  domain. 

Happy  Ahmed  !  On  guard  at  the  palace,  during 
her  brief  stay  in  the  suite  of  the  Empress,  as  maid  of 
honor,  the  young  soldier  has  listened  to  the  glori 
ous  beauty  while  their  voices  mingled  in  the  al 
most  forgotten  tongue  of  her  native  land.  To  the 
envy  of  the  other  curled  Guardsmen,  Schamyl  has 
the  rare  ability  of  using  her  own  Georgian  dialect. 

While  he  sips  the  velvety  Chambertin,  Ahmed 
sees  again  Maritza's  flashing  dark  eyes,  liquid  with 
the  light  of  unchallenged  beauty's  dower. 

"  Ah  !  The  star-eyed  lady  is  far  away  now,  Paul ! 
There  are  many  gallants  around  the  vice-regal  court 
of  Tiflis." 

It  is  indeed  true  that  the  peerless  Georgian  has 
returned,  with  new  Russian  graces,  to  charm  the 
pleasure-loving  circle  at  the  great  headquarters,  on 
the  border  where  Russia,  Persia,  and  Turkey  join. 

"  She  owns  some  of  your  old  family  domains, 
Ahmed  ?  "  questions  Paul. 

"  En  verite  !  "  laughs  Ahmed.  "  My  dear  boy  ! 
The  Deshkalins  control  the  greater  part  of  our  heri 
tage,  from  the  black  pass  of  Dariel  to  the  rose-gar 
dens  of  sunny  Tiflis.  My  royal  father  held  the  land 
with  forty  thousand  mailed  horsemen — a  strong  title. 
We  have  now  money,  thanks  to  the  magnanimity  of 
the  Emperor.  But  the  house  of  Schamyl  has  noth- 


22  PRINCE   SCHAMYL  S    WOOING. 

ing  left  in  lands  but  one  old  eyrie  of  Gunib  and  the 
romantic  hunting  parks  of  Dargo  ! "  .  . 

Slowly  sipping  their  coffee  over  cigars  and  liquors, 
the  two  friends  commune  as  to  the  possibility  of  a 
Turkish  uprising  in  the  Caucasus. 

"  If  Ghazee  plays  the  Emperor  false,  Ahmed,  you 
may  not  be  sent  to  your  native  mountains,  but  over 
to  the  swamps  of  the  Dobrudsha. 

"  How  could  they  count  one  brother  as  a  rene 
gade,  and  give  the  other  full  sway  ?  The  Emperor 
cannot  know  all." 

"  Ah  !  Paul,  it  is  sad  !  "  cries  Ahmed,  with  clenched 
hands.  "  I  cannot  denounce  even  such  a  brother  in 
advance ! 

"  Can  I  plead  a  loyalty  for  myself  which  I  have 
not  yet  proved  ?  But  !  " — his  eyes  flash — "  the  field 
will  tell  the  story."  .  .  . 

"  I  counsel  you  to  do  nothing  to  prevent  your 
Moslem  half-brother  from  slipping  out  now,  Ah 
med,"  wisely  remarks  Paul,  studying  the  noble  face 
of  the  young  Uhlan. 

"  Why  ?  "  wearily  queries  Ahmed. 

"  Bring  it  to  a  head  to-night.  You  are  not  able 
to  keep  him  faithful.  Let  him  go.  War  will  not 
be  declared  for  three  months.  If  he  goes  now,  you 
can  prove  your  innocence. 

"  If  he  deserts  at  the  last  moment,  you  are  ruined 
for  this  campaign." 

"  Paul,  I  thank  you."  Ahmed  springs  up,  prom 
ising  to  return  and  report. 

There  is  an  ugly  look  in  the  glittering  dark  eyes 
of  the  Uhlan.  It  bodes  no  good  to  Ghazee.  Toss 
ing  his  cloak  over  him,  lightly  swinging  his  heavy 


PRINCE    SCHAMVL  S   WOOING.  23 

"  chaska  "  to  its  belt,  with  the  stride  of  a  moun 
taineer  Ahmed  descends  the  stairway.  .  .  . 

A  clatter  of  bells,  a  flash  past  the  window, 
Schamyl  whirls  by  like  the  drifted  leaf  in  the  storm 
toward  his  bitter  tryst. 

"  Gallant  fellow,"  ruminates  Paul,  as  he  tries  a  few 
pages  of  a  naughty  French  novel.  "  I  think  there 
will  be  a  stormy  scene.  Ah,  well  !  this  is  a  case  of 
Kismet." 

The  Battery  captain's  eyes  wander  over  the  seem 
ingly  trite  pages.  He  hurls  the  volume  at  his  dog. 

"  Basta  !  "  he  cries.  "  I  wish  I  could  dance  the 
mazurka  just  once  more  with  lovely  Maritza,  the 
Rose  of  Tiflis.  Great  God  !  what  eyes !  "  Platoff 
has  recourse  to  the  papyrus — he  half  closes  his  eyes. 
This  scheming  Ghazee  ! 

"  By  St.  Vladimir  ! — I  have  it !  I  see  that  devil 
Ghazee's  scheme.  He  pursued  Princess  Maritza  here 
with  desperate  attentions.  He  hopes  to  see  the 
Crescent  pushed  as  far  as  the  line  of  the  Caucasus. 
If  he  aids  the  movement,  he  may  be  Pacha  of 
Georgia.  Will  he  reign  supreme  over  this  fairy 
domain,  and  wear  the  Rose  of  Tiflis  on  his  heart?" 

Paul  excitedly  takes  a  draught  of  vodki.  "I 
must  warn  Ahmed  about  this.  He  will — he  must 
protect  her!  Yes!  it  would  be  strange  to  see 
Sultan  Schamyl's  two  sons  cross  swords,  in  their  own 
land,  over  this  lovely  Rose  of  Georgia." 

Platoff  is  heart  whole  and  a  philosopher.  "  I 
must  go  and  tell  my  brother  Ivan.  He  can  inform 
Prince  Gortschakoff  how  true  Ahmed  is.  Our  foxy 
old  premier  can  guess  the  rest. 

"Ahmed   must    serve   in    his   own    land.     Great 


I'RINCE    9CHAMYI/S   WOOING. 

George !    what    a   country-    for    battery    practice !" 
Platoff  wanders  in  the  smoke  of  yet  unfought  fields. 
.     . 

As  Platoff  dreams  and  smokes,  Ahmed,  raging  at 
heart,  drives  to  his  brother's  splendid  town-house. 

Ghazee  Mohammed  does  not  disdain  a  luxury 
which  impr-  n  the  lavish  Ru 

The  obsequious  dvornik  informs  him  that  his 
Highness  sups  with  the  Ottoman  Charge  d'  Affaires. 
The  young  prince  dashes  thither.  The  palatial  halls 
are  all  lit  up. 

Cards,  conspiracy,  women,  and  low  plot 
ting."  Ahmed  gnashes  his  teeth.  "  Old  Ben 
Schamyl  ruled  like  a  Sultan,  not  thus  debasing  him 
self  before  his  inferiors." 

Drawing  up  before  the  Legation,  the  major 
scrawls  a  few  words  in  the  patois  of  his  boyhood  on 
a  card.  The  dragoman  bows,  he  knows  too  well  the 
fiery  ian  would  not  brook  a  moment's  hesita 

tion.     He   returns   with    timid    eagerness,    hat    in 
':.  L  r.  ~ . 

The  Prince  will  be  there.     Salaam — Highness." 

For  twenty  minutes  Ahmed  drives  up  and  down 
before  the  great  Catherine  statue  on  the  Nevsky. 
well-known  troika  approach,  he  springs 
from  the  sleigh,  and  his  high  Circassian  boots 
crunch  the  crisp  snow  of  the  square,  where,  placed 
above  her  many  sculptured  lovers,  the  Great  Cath 
erine  (a  bronze  goddess)  is  enthroned  in  the  crystal 
line  winter  starlight. 

his  brother  is  coming  !     His  brother  and  his 
enemy — now  !     PerL  ^ 


PRINCE  SCIIAMYL'S  WOOING.  25 


CHAPTER   II. 

BROTHERS  NO  MORE.— AT  THE  TURKISH  AMBASSA 
DOR'S  BALL. — A  ROYAL  DESERTER. — DIPLO 
MATIC  SPIDER-WEBS. 

"You  want  me!  For  what?"  Ghazee's  heavy 
foot  strides  along  by  the  side  of  the  agile  Ahmed. 

A  lumbering,  sullen,  red-bearded  man  of  middle 
age  is  the  head  of  the  house  of  Schamyl.  His 
voice  bears  neither  tenderness  nor  passing  interest. 
He  would  be  back  with  Mustapha  Pacha. 

"  Ghazee,  I  have  a  few  words  to  say  to  you. 
You  can  answer  or  not,  as  you  wish.  You  have 
never  been  a  kind  brother  to  me,  yet  we  bear  the 
same  name.  You  still  wear  a  Russian  uniform." 

"  Proceed,"  growls  Ghazee.     "  Be  brief." 

Ahmed's  eyes  blaze  like  black  diamonds.  His 
voice  rings  like  a  bell.  They  are  far  beyond  the 
driveway,  where  sleighs  laden  with  lovers  dash 
along  (meteors  of  the  night),  swift  and  spectral  as 
the  black  coursers  of  Fate. 

"  Are  you  going  to  desert  your  flag  in  this  war?" 

"  Who  says  so  ?  "  snarls  "Ghazee. 

"  A  man  I  am  going  to  shoot  to-morrow  for 
lying,  if  you  say  it  is  not  true,"  is  the  cutting  re 
sponse. 

"  Where  is  this  talk?  "  demands  Ghazee,  fiercely. 

"  In  the  salons,  the  clubs,  the  casernes,"  hisses 
Ahmed,  facing  his  brother,  like  a  duellist,  a  la 
barriere. 

"  I  have  no  answer.  Go  to  the  devil !  "  is  the  not 
over-judicious  remark  of  the  senior. 


26  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

Ahmed  lightly  springs  upon  his  companion.  He 
grasps  his  wrists  and  eyes  him  steadily. 

"  Are  you  mad  ?  "  he  queries. 

"  No  !  I  am  going  to  keep  out  of  this  war.  I  will 
not  be  questioned."  Ghazee  has  cut  the  bond  at 
last. 

Ahmed  drops  his  wrists. 

"  I  will  give  you  till  noon  to-morrow  to  resign 
unconditionally  from  the  Russian  service,  or  I  will 
denounce  you  myself.  I  shall  report  at  the  Ministry 
of  War."  The  young  man  is  wild  with  shame. 

"  You  may  throw  away  your  own  honor.  You 
shall  not  ruin  me.  If  you  go,  go  as  a  man,  not  as  a 
renegade  and  traitor.  You  shall  not  stay  and  play 
the  spy/' 

The  silent  stars  shine  down  on  two  princely 
brothers  facing  each  other,  under  the  shadows  of 
Catherine's  lofty  monument. 

"  Now,  by  the  grave  of  my  father,  dog,  fool,  and 
lickspittle  of  the  Giaour,  I  curse  you  by  this  !  To 
Eblis,  the  home  of  the  damned !  I  swear  it  !  " 

The  amulet  of  Ben  Schamyl  glitters  in  the  pale 
starlight.  Ahmed's  hand  seeks  his  dagger.  He 
drops  it  in  wonder.  Is  his  brother  mad  ? 

"  We  meet  again,  as  deadly  foes,"  is  the  last  snarl 
of  Ghazee,  who  turns  his  back. 

Ahmed,  motionless,  sees  the  retreating  form  of 
the  man  who  is  brother  no  more.  Surprise  par 
alyzes  him.  It  is  over. 

The  troika  dashes  away.  Standing,  drawing  lines 
in  the  flake  snow  with  his  sabre  sheath,  Ahmed 
Schamyl  knows  he  is  now  alone  in  the  world.  It  is 
then  true.  Ah  !  disgrace  ! 


PRINCE   SCHAMYL  S   WOOING.  27 

Leisurely  walking  to  his  sleigh,  he  drives  to 
Platoff's  house.  His  being  is  stagnated. 

At  least,  his  brother's  blood  is  not  on  his  hands 
yet.  Yes  !  Paul  is  waiting  still. 

The  two  friends  meet  without  a  word.  Ahmed 
throws  himself  down. 

Platoff  can  hear  his  own  heart  beat. 

After  a  few  moments,  Schamyl  wrings  his  hand. 

"  I'll  tell  you  all  to-morrow,  Paul.  Come  to  my 
quarters  at  four." 

Mechanically  draining  a  stirrup  cup,  he  smiles 
faintly  and  clanks  down  stairs. 

His  face  looked  green  and  stony  in  the  lamp 
light  as  he  passed  the  door. 

"  Just  the  way  Bolski  looked  when  he  fell  with 
Orenburg's  sword  in  his  heart,"  thinks  Platoff.  He 
sleeps,  for  another  day's  revelations  wait  him. 

Paul  Platoff's  dreams  were  not  pleasant. 

While  he  tossed  and  turned,  there  was  yet  high 
revel  at  the  Turkish  Embassy.  There  is  music, 
flowers,  feasting,  dancing. 

Groups  of  men  and  women  "  a  la  mode,"  and 
everywhere  "  vive  la  bagatelle."  The  Russian  life 
of  the  salons.  Prince  Ghazee  Schamyl  pushes  his 
way  through  the  gay  crowd.  Unheeding  laughing 
salutations,  and  merry  challenges  of  rosy  lips,  he 
seeks  one  well-known  figure. 

Ah,  yes!  There  enthroned,  with  her  amber 
hair,  and  steady,  cold  blue  eyes,  Nadya  Vronsky 
queens  it  in  her  place  of  honor. 

Brushing  aside  the  smaller  fry  of  her  adorers,  the 
burly  prince  whispers  a  word. 

Offering  his  arm  with  the  aplomb  of  a  veteran  of 


28  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

many  Petersburg  seasons,  Ghazee  leads  the  lady  to 
an  alcove. 

A  few  whispered  syllables  throw  an  ashy  pallor 
over  the  beauty  of  her  haughty  Austrian-like  face. 

"  To-night,  Prince?"  she  murmurs.  Her  bosom 
heaves.  It  is  a  lightning  stroke. 

He  bows  sullenly.  "  Tell  him  he  must  give  me 
fifteen  minutes  at  once,  in  his  own  room." 

"  And  what  of  me  ?  "  There  is  a  quiver  in  the 
voice  of  the  cold  countess. 

"  That  you  will  learn  when  you  join  us.  Be  care 
ful.  Do  not  be  observed." 

He  bows  low,  and  saunters  carelessly  into  the 
buffet  supper-room,  nodding  to  a  friend  here  and 
there.  A  club  rendezvous  for  a  roulette  duel? 
Yes.  Passing  through  a  portiere,  the  prince  pushes 
his  way  into  the  privacy  of  the  sanctum  of  Musta- 
pha  Pacha.  He  drops  on  a  divan. 

Ghazee  Mohammed  Schamyl  lifts  his  head  calmly 
as  the  dark-bearded  Charge  glides  in,  closing  the 
door.  There  is  an  eager  question  in  the  diplomat's 
eyes—"  What  stroke  has  fallen  ?  " 

"  It  is  all  over,  Mustapha  !  "  Ghazee  growls.  "  I 
leave  to-night  or  never!  But  how?  I  may  be 
arrested  any  moment.  That  mad  fool  Ahmed  has 
heard  it  in  the  clubs." 

u  Do  you  speak  Persian  ? "  Mustapha  quickly 
queries.  His  lightning  mind  suggests  a  way  out. 

Ghazee  nods. 

"  You  are  saved  !  "  cries  the  host.  Mustapha 
then  claps  his  hands.  The  valets  pour  in.  In  ten 
minutes  Ghazee  is  no  more  the  Guardsman,  en  demi- 
tenue. 


PRINCE   SCHAMYL  S    WOOING.  29 

He  is  a  shawled,  turbaned  Persian  merchant. 

"  Is  the  stain  on  my  hair  dark  enough?  "  Ghazee 
queries. 

"  The  rest  at  the  Bazaar,"  replies  the  diplomat. 
A  dozen  nimble  hands  have  aided  in  the  task  of 
disguise.  Countess  Nadya  Vronsky  enters  the 
secret  room.  She  aids  in  the  last  drapery  touches. 

"  I  have  full  passports  vised  for  these  travelling 
merchants  who  go  to  Hamburg.  Iskander,  my 
Armenian  secretary,  will  attend  to  all.  He  will 
pass  you  on  the  steamer.  Give  him  any  cipher 
letter  for  me." 

There  are  tears  in  Nadya  Vronsky's  eyes.  "  You 
go  alone  ?  "  she  falters. 

"Yes,  if  I  can,"  growls  Ghazee.  "Now,  get 
down  with  the  other  fools,  and  leave  the  ball  as 
soon  as  you  can.  No  nonsense !  Go  openly,  with 
an  air  of  fatigue. 

"  Don't  whimper  when  I  am  gone.  You'll  get  to 
Constantinople  soon  enough." 

The  Vronsky's  head  drops  in  her  hands.  Bitter 
tears  steal  through  her  jewelled  fingers.  He  sneers 
his  parting  advice  : 

"  Now  end  this.  Mustaphawill  look  out  for  you. 
Wait  for  his  wishes.  I  must  leave.  They  would 
not  dare  to  search  this  Legation ;  but  the  Russian 
dogs  will  watch  every  one  leaving,  and  play  their 
clumsy  part  as  spies." 

If  ever  Nadya  Vronsky's  heart  clung  to  an  idol, 
Ghazee  was  that  divinity  of  her  strange  affections — 
a  paradox  of  love. 

Throwing  her  arms  around  him,  she  whispers : 
"  At  Constantinople,  soon  ?  " 


30  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

"  Yes,  yes  !  "  rapidly  speaks  Ghazee,  pushing  her 
to  the  door.  He  roughly  embraces  her. 

She  is  gone.     The  door  is  locked. 

"  Now,  Mustapha,  have  your  people  destroy  my 
entire  uniform  and  cloaks  here.  Let  my  driver  be 
told  I  have  gone  to  the  club  with  a  friend.  Give 
me  a  good  dagger  !  Yes,  that's  right.  Now,  send 
this  ring  to  Dimitri,  my  Greek  maitre  d'hotel,  to 
morrow—after  we  pass  Cronstadt.  H  e  knows  the  sign. 

"  I  must  not  linger  here  now.  Send  that  devil  of 
a  woman  down  to  Constantinople,  by  Vienna — not 
too  quick."  Ghazee  leers  to  himself.  "You  can 
trust  her  with  anything  for  me." 

"Do  you  wish  anything  more?"  anxiously  que 
ries  the  Sultan's  representative.  He  craves  the 
safety  of  solitude. 

"  Yes,  your  flask — some  of  that  old  cognac.  Ci 
gars?  No.  Cigarettes?  Yes. 

"  There  !  Now  you  will  soon  be  with  us.  How 
do  I  go  out?"  Ghazee  is  ready  for  flight.  "  More 
safely  by  the  servants'  entrances  ?  " 

"  Here  !  Osman  will  conduct  you.  Now,  depend 
on  Iskander.  Allah  be  your  guide.  Money  ?  " 

"No." 

"  Well,  Iskander  will  furnish  you  any  amount  at 
Hamburg!" 

Before  the  last  words  are  finished  Prince  Ghazee 
Mohammed  Schamyl  has  disappeared.  The  Im 
perial  Guard  has  lost  an  officer. 

Drowsy  porters,  scullions, and  the  "  valetaille"  cast 
but  a  contemptuous  eye  on  the  passing  Asiatic  who 
disappears  in  the  night.  Some  peddling  jewel  mer 
chant — trash  and  turquoises ! 


PRINCE    SCHAMYL S    WOOING.  31 

As  his  attendant  guides  him,  Ghazee  hears  above, 
the  ceaseless  clatter  of  the  wassail  rout. 

His  path  of  treason  begins  in  darkness.  A  few 
paces  and  a  passing  sleigh  is  caught.  In  an  hour 
Ghazee  slumbers  in  the  midst  of  the  Persian  trav 
ellers.  His  guardian  Osman  lurks  on  watch  over  the 
traitor. 

Mustapha  Pacha  mingles  once  more  with  his 
guests.  A  dozen  cavaliers  throng  around,  eager  to 
escort  Countess  Vronsky  to  her  carriage.  As  she 
takes  leave  of  her  host,  he  suavely  remarks : 

"  Ah  !  madame,  your  faithless  prince  has  gone  to 
the  club,  I  see— a  little  roulette." 

The  circle  of  cavaliers  hear  of  the  departure  of 
Ghazee  Schamyl  with  joy.  The  path  is  now  open 
to  lesser  luminaries.  They  struggle  for  the  escort 
of  the  fair  goddess. 

Before  the  tired  beauties  who  graced  the  diplomat's 
fete  have  taken  their  morning  chocolate  Ghazee 
Schamyl  is  tossing  on  the  high  rolling  waves  of  the 
Gulf  of  Finland.  Cross-legged  and  seated  with  a 
crowd  of  Persians,  he  fingers  his  heavy  dagger,  as 
man  after  man,  who  might  know  him,  passes  along 
the  deck. 

Yes!  Death  before  capture.  His  brow  is  dark. 
It  is  an  hour  of  fate ! 

There  is  fair  example  in  the  half-frozen  Persian 
merchants  to  warrant  Ghazee  muffling  up  his  face. 
Wrapped  to  the  eyes,  shivering  and  fearful  of  the 
sea,  they  are  all  as  thoroughly  hidden  from  sight  as 
mummies. 

The  danger  is  soon  over.  The  forts  are  now  far 
astern.  The  proud  flag  of  the  Romanoffs  has  sunk 


32  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

behind  the  blowing  fog  wreaths.  Ghazee  has  left 
his  old  life,  his  new  foe  (once  a  brother),  and — his 
honor — far  Behind  him.  He  is  a  deserter  now  ;  a 
traitor  to  be. 

He  is  on  his  way — whither? 

Nadya  Vronsky's  tear-stained  cheeks  rest  on  her 
pillows  till  late  in  the  afternoon.  A  servant  from 
the  Turkish  embassy  brings  a  superb  hot-house 
bouquet  of  flowers,  priceless  in  the  icy  land  of  the 
Czar. 

A  tiny  note  tells  her,  "All  is  well.  The  boat  has 
passed  Cronstadt.  Expect  me  this  evening  at 
dinner." 

The  sage  Mustapha  desires  to  be  conspicuously 
absent  should  Ghazee  be  sent  for.  There  may  be 
no  inquiry  at  the  Legation,  yet  he  lingers.  The 
faultlessly  dressed  countess,  reassured  at  heart,  is  at 
last  seated  at  dinner.  No  news  yet !  The  placid 
diplomat  arrives,  whispering,  as  he  kisses  her 
hand : 

"  Adjutants  looking  for  Prince  Ghazee  at  his 
house  and  club." 

Mustapha  smiles,  however,  blandly.  The  ring  has 
done  its  work. 

Neither  hostess  nor  the  now  happy  guest  can  un 
derstand  the  lightning  quickness  of  this  discovery. 
They  know  not  GortschakofTs  intention. 

While  they  are  discussing  the  sterlets  and  Chablis, 
two  grave-faced  men  are  seated  in  Ahmed  Schamyl's 
quarters. 

Paul  Platoff  lingered  not  when  morning  roused 
him. 

In  memory  of  his  resolution  of  the  night  before, 


PRINCE    SCHAMYL  S   WOOING.  33 

he  sought   his   brother  Ivan,  who  was  always  close 
to  the  person  of  the  mighty  Gortschakoff. 

Venerable  and  antique  diplomat,  he,  swift  to  act, 
was  yet  a  patient  listener. 

Platoff  had  not  regained  his  quarters  in  relief, 
when,  over  a  dish  of  tea  and  a  cigarette,  Prince  Gort 
schakoff  formed  his  sudden  plans.  He  discovered  a 
pressing  need  for  the  services  of  Colonel  Ghazee 
Schamyl,  on  a  special  mission  to  Tashkend,  under  a 
strong  escort. 

"  I  fancy  the  escort  I  will  give  him  will  prevent 
this  craven  scoundrel  from  wandering  off  to  the 
Golden  Horn,  unless  the  dead  can  walk,"  ruminates 
the  grim  old  prince,  as  he  receives  his  colleague  the 
war  minister.  A  special  list  of  confidential  officers 
being  conned  over,  Colonel  Iranoff  is  sent  for  on  a 
gallop.  He  receives  some  instructions  at  the  war 
office  which  startle  him.  Yet  he  opens  not  his 
round  Tartar  eyes  a  whit.  It  is  the  Czar  who 
speaks,  with  sacred  order. 

Platoff's  long  shot  has  done  its  work.  "  Thank 
my  stars  !  I  have  saved  Ahmed  the  shame  of  de 
nouncing  his  brother,"  he  whispers  to  himself  on 
drill. 

Platoff  inspects  his  hardy  troops  in  barracks.  He 
smiles  to  see  their  rosy  cheeks,  straw-colored  beards, 
and  thorough  sturdy  Russian  air. 

"  Glory  to  the  Czar!  No  mountain  devils  here — 
half  Turk,  half  Kurd  ! 

"  I  am  not  afraid  of  treason  in  my  battery." 

Platoff   is  right,  for  the  Turkish  leaden  hail  may 
mow  his  stalwart  gunners  down.     They  will  die,  to 
a  man,  for  the  White  Czar. 
3 


34  PRINCE    SCHAMYL  S   WOOING. 

Ahmed  Schamyl  serves  his  guest  at  dinner  with 
the  scrupulous  politeness  of  his  mountain  race. 

"Brave  in  battle,"  "eloquent  in  assembly,"  are 
great  titles  in  Circassia.  But  he  who  is  the  "  most 
hospitable  "  wears  the  brightest  crown  of  all.  .  . 

At  last  the  servants  depart.  Platoff  hears  the 
story  of  the  parting  of  the  brothers,  on  the  snowy 
square. 

"  Had  it  been  any  man  but  my  father's  son,  he 
would  not  have  left  that  spot  alive,"  is  the  gloomy 
conclusion  of  the  dark  giant,  whose  hand  drops 
nervously  on  the  heavy  silver  hilt  of  his  belt  dag 
ger. 

"  And  now,  Paul,  tell  me  of  the  day.  I  have  pur 
posely  avoided  the  club.  Even  on  the  Nevsky  I 
have  not  ventured.  Is  there  more  disgrace?  " 

Schamyl's  eyes  seek  the  answer  in  the  steady  gaze 
of  Paul. 

"  Prince,  I  was  told,  late  this  afternoon,  by  Ivan, 
that  a  special  secret  expedition  toward  Tashkend 
was  ordered — Iranoff  with  six  sotnias  of  Don 
Cossacks,  two  light  guns,  and  your  brother  in  charge 
of  the  mission  !  " 

Schamyl's  wonder  leaves  him  speechless. 

"  The  adjutants  have  searched  for  Prince  Ghazee 
at  his  house,  in  vain." 

Prudent  Paul  says  nothing  of  his  own  velvet 
hand  and  Gortschakoff's  intention. 

"  What  answer  at  his  house  ?"  huskily  demands 
Ahmed. 

"  The  maitre  d'hotel  replied  that  Prince  Ghazee 
went  to  the  club  from  the  ball  last  night. 

"  His  carriage  waited  its  turn  and  was  sent  home 


PRINCE  SCIIAMYL'S  WOOING.  35 

by  his  order.  He  never  reached  the  Yacht  Club. 
He  has  not  been  found  yet !  " 

There  is  a  cold  ring,  in  Platoff's  voice  which  cuts 
the  young  listener.  A  deserter  ! — Ghazee  ! 

"  Then  he  has  fled  !  "     Schamyl  almost  screams. 

Paul  bows  his  head. 

"  But  where,  how,  with  whose  help  ?  "  the  loyal 
prince  demands  anxiously. 

"  That  we  must  leave  to  the  Third  Section,  I 
fear,  Ahmed,"  is  the  pitying  answer  of  the  captain. 

"  Schamyl's  heir  a  proscribed  fugitive,"  resumes 
the  prince. 

"  You  know,  Prince,  that  in  three  days,  on  the 
summons  formally  left  at  his  house,  he  will  be 
reported  to  the  Czar  as  a  deserter." 

"And.  I  have  not  been  questioned  !"  Schamyl 
murmurs. 

"  No,  Major !  your  position  is  a  delicate  one. 
I  doubt  if  you  will  be  personally  examined.  There 
will  be  no  general  publicity. 

"  Ivan  told  me  the  Foreign  office  and  Interior 
Ministry  had  telegraphed  the  usual  orders  in  this 
case  to  all  frontiers  and  ambassadors." 

"  Where  shall  I  see  Ghazee  again,  Paul  ?  On 
the  scaffold  ?  "  Ahmed  groans. 

"  Prince,  I  think  Ghazee  will  be  surrounded  with 
a  thousand  Kurdish  devils;  if  you  meet  him,  .  .  . 
it  will  be  on  the  battle-field." 

Schamyl  lifts  wearied  eyes  to  his  friend. 

"  And  in  the  clubs — among  the  regiments  "  ("his 
eyes  are  flashing).  "  Oh,  for  some  foolish  tattling 
victim  !" 

"  Schamyl,  you  must  notice  no  one.     There  will 


36  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

be  no  slurs  upon  you — but  you  cannot  defend  the 
absent. 

"  No  man  could  go  out  with  you  in  such  a  cause. 
Loyalty  forbids!  " 

Paul  is  deeply  moved.     "  Magna  est  veritas  !  " 

"  You  are  right,  my  friend,"  Schamyl  gloomily 
answers.  "  The  eldest  son  of  Sultan  Schamyl  is 
now  a  deserter  and  a  traitor.  I  must  bear  this 
burden  silently." 

Platoff  has  one  comforting  conclusion.  "  Ghazee 
could  not  get  away  out  of  Russia  without  previous 
arrangement,  help,  and  watchful  friends,  //"he  has 
been  smuggled  out,  it  points  only  to  the  Ottoman 
Legation.  They  cannot  be  questioned  too  harshly, 
for  their  whole  '  personnel '  will  soon  leave.  This 
scandal  will  be  swallowed  up  soon  in  the  wild 
excitements  of  the  war." 

"  By  heavens!  I'll  beard  that  sly  devil  Mustapha 
in  his  den  !  "  Ahmed  springs  to  his  feet. 

"  That  is  what  you  shall  not  do  !  The  gravest 
displeasure  of  the  Czar  would  punish  your  impru 
dent  action. 

"  Wait  for  the  battle-field,  Ahmed,  and  bring 
home  a  Pacha's  standard.  You  must  shun  your 
brother's  quondam  friend,  Nadya  Vronsky.  Cher- 
chez  la  femme.  It  is  ever  so.  She  is  only  Ghazee's 
tool.  He  bends  to  no  other  influence! 

"  Avoid   the  circle  of  his  intimates." 

"  You  are  right,  Paul !  I  rely  on  you  for  news. 
But,  if  I  am  relieved  from  my  regiment,  I  will  blow 
my  brains  out  on  parade.  I  will  not  stand  open 
disgrace." 

Ahmed   is  exalted  to  a  nervous  tension  of  mad- 


PRINCE   SCIIAMYL  S    WOOING.  37 

ness.     His  mood  is  as  high  as  the  frowning  Cauca 
sus  peaks. 

"  My  comrade  !  Believe  me,  you  must  trust  to 
the  delicacy  of  our  soldier  Emperor.  Promise  me 
you  will  let  me  guide  you  in  this." 

Paul's  voice  quivers.  The  strong  man's  heart  is 
moved  to  its  core. 

"  Platoff,  you  have  my  word.  Let  us  take  a  look 
at  the  Neva."  Ahmed  submits. 

In  ten  minutes  the  friends  are  racing  along  the 
river  drive.  The  cares  of  the  day  drift  away  in  the 
mad  rush  of  the  steeds. 

While  the  artillery  captain  sees  Ahmed  gently 
softening  down  from  his  excited  mood,  there  was 
weaving  of  the  darkest  webs  over  Nadya  Vronsky's 
board — at  the  tete-a-tete. 

Mustapha's  silken  voice  unravelled  the  tangled 
threads  of  the  intrigues  of  the  princely  deserter. 

"  As  you  go  to  Constantinople,  you  must  know 
all.  Countess,  I  promised  Ghazee  the  Armenian 
cavalry  command.  There  are  some  private  matters 
to  be  discussed  yet  at  the  Porte. 

"  Without  haste,  you  must  shortly  leave,  via 
Vienna,  and  take  the  railway  to  the  Bosporus. 

"  We  may  receive  our  passports  any  moment ! 
Gortschakoff,  Schovaloff,  Oubrey,  and  that  arch 
devil  Nicolas  Ignatief  are  ready  to  light  the  mine." 

"Can  I  be  of  no  more  use  here?"  the  fair  intri 
guante  whispers,  for  even  the  stone  walls  have  ears 
of  acutest  power  on  the  Neva. 
•    Mustapha  drains  the  forbidden  glass.     He  smiles. 

"  Chere  amie,  you  have  performed  wonders.  You 
know  what  the  Council  will  do  for  you  on  the 


38  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

Golden  Horn.  Yet,  now,  every  one  knows  that 
Vronsky  did  not  bring  back  a  Russian  at  heart,  as 
his  marital  prize  from  the  Danube  !  Your  wonder 
ful  talent  has  marked  you  here  too  openly." 

"And  at  Constantinople  shall  I  rejoin  Ghazee?" 
She  is  eager. 

"  I  fear  not,  Nadya,"  replies  Mustapha,  beaming 
over  his  glass,  feasting  his*eyes  upon  the  "  shapely 
silver  shoulders "  of  the  Turkish  secret  "  mou- 
charde." 

"  Ghazee  will  be  climbing  the  crests  of  Daghestan 
or  toiling  over  the  Kasbek  range  before  you  arrive. 

"  He  is  to  foment  discord  and  raise  a  secret 
counter  feud  against  these  Russian  dogs. 

"  Perfect  in  knowledge  of  the  Caucasus  gorges, 
able  in  cunning  disguise,  he  will  sneak  over  the 
present  lines  scathless.  But  he  must  go  in  varying 
guises,  to  outwit  that  Armenian  devil  Loris  Meli- 
koff.  You  cannot  join  him  there. 

"  I  have  even  begged  him  not  to  go  to  Tiflis : 
Melikoff  would  not  stop  to  call  out  a  firing  party, 
if  he  were  caught.  The  nearest  Cossack's  rifle 
would  end  the  days  of  Ghazee. 

"You  will  be  sent  back  to  the  Principalities,  I 
presume."  Mustapha  gloats  over  his  bird  in  the  net. 

"  I  would  brave  any  risk  to  go  to  Ghazee  in 
Armenia.  Please  use  your  influence  for  me,  Mus 
tapha,"  the  white-faced  beauty  pleads  to  the  suave, 
insinuating  Turk. 

"Chere  Comtesse,"  Mustapha  rejoins,  in  his  oily 
manner,  edging  his  chair  nearer  the  eager  woman, 
"  he  won't  miss  you.  He  has  sworn  on  his  father's 
amulet  to  conquer  and  lead  away  to  his  harem  the 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  39 

beautiful  Princess  Maritza  of  Tiflis.  You  know  her 
family  hold  his  old  domains  now.  ...  Be 
reasonable,  Nadya,  do  not  rage  now."  He  pauses. 
Mustapha  has  a  scheme  which  includes  the  white 
Countess  Vronsky  in  his  own  dove-cot,  by  the 
myrtle-fringed  shores  of  Istambol. 

"  Why  seeks  he  this  border  woman  ?  Tell  me, 
why  ?  "  Her  lips  are  bitten  till  they  bleed. 

"  Ah,  my  beauty  !  "  slowly  answers  Mustapha 
(while  his  bold  dark  eyes  rove  over  her  charms), 
"  he  has  in  his  stony  heart,  besides  the  devil  of 
'  desire,'  that  giant  Moloch  '  revenge.' 

"  He  swears  now  he  will  force  her  yet  to  hold 
his  stirrup  before  his  troops,  for  she  flouted  him 
when  he  met  her  here  last  winter." 

"  And  he  lied  to  me,  the  cold-hearted  devil !  " 
Nadya  Vronsky  harshly  mutters. 

"  Ah  !  Fair  lady,  he  then  did  tell  you,  his  heart 
was  yours  alone  !  " 

Mustapha  leans  back,  enjoying  her  agony.  This 
episode  gives  a  real  zest  to  a  delicate  repast.  This 
is  the  wine  of  life  ! 

"  You  remember,  Nadya,  the  Duke  in  Rigoletto. 
One  beauty  in  his  straining  arms,  and  the  discarded 
one  dying  without,  to  the  sound  of  their  happy 
laughter.  It  is  delicious  to  see  a  woman  of  the 
world,  like  you,  touched  at  heart  !  " 

"  I  swear  by  the  God  who  made  me,  I  will  have 
my  revenge  !  "  the  excited  woman  cries. 

"Bah!  Dear  Countess,  there  are  many  other 
budding  beauties  in  Georgia.  It  is  the  Land  of 
Roses.  .  .  .  The  fairest  women  in  the  Seraglio 
are  those  queenly  Georgians. 


40  PRINCE    SCHAMYL  S    WOOING. 

"  Now,  be  reasonable.  Let  me  advise  you. 
Ghazee  has  no  feeling.  Yon  should  know  one 
better  who  is  nearer  you  than  this  sullen  moun 
taineer." 

Mustapha  complacently  gazes  on  his  vraisem- 
blance  in  the  mirror. 

The  white  countess  fixes  her  sapphire  eyes  on  him 
with  a  glare  as  stony  as  Polaris  shining  on  the  lonely 
ice  floes  of  an  Arctic  sea. 

"You  think  I  am  in  your  power!  You  would 
drag  me  at  your  chariot  wheels !  I  am  a  woman 
who  chooses  yet  her  own  path."  This  hard  mood 
of  Nadya  is  defiance  to  the  death. 

Mustapha  bows  quietly  as  he  rolls  his  cigarette. 
"  I  know  you  to  be  the  most  adorable  of  your  sex. 
Possibly  you  are  a  little  short-sighted.  /  never 
threaten.  It  is  better  to  allow  full  head  to  a  fiery 
steed.  You  will  go  your  own  way  !  Do  so,  ma 
belle!  /ask  you  to  Constantinople  !  You  prefer — 

"  My  own  way  !  " 

The  woman's  voice  is  hard  and  dry. 

"  It  leads  to  Siberia  !  "  complacently  murmurs 
Mustapha.  He  throws  a  letter  carelessly  on  the 
table.  The  paper  rustles  nervously  in  her  trembling 
hands.  A  deathly  chill  strikes  her  to  the  heart. 
The  missive  falls  on  the  table.  She  bows  her 
head.  "  You  will  abandon  me  ?  "  her  voice  falters 
now. 

"  Never ! "  cheerfully  rejoins  Mustapha,  as  he 
trifles  with  a  "  pousse-caf^." 

"  When  I  opened  that  letter  from  the  foreign 
office,  I  realized  that  they  want  a  scapegoat  to 
cover  Ghazee's  desertion.  I  am  asked  if  you  are 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  41 

under  Turkish  protection.  As  Vronsky's  childless 
widow,  you  can  waive  your  marriage  change  of 
citizenship." 

Mustapha  beams  like  a  father  on  the  white  count 
ess.  He  cheerfully  rambles  along. 

"  There  were  some  little  irregularities  in  the  cere 
mony,  n'est-ce  pas,  ma  belle  ? 

"  No  permission  of  the  Emperor. 

"  No  Greek  Church  baptism. 

"No  production  of  your  papers." 

Nadya  mutely  nods  her  head. 

"Then,  bella  figlia,  you  are  safe.  It  is  a  polite 
hint  from  Gortschakoff  to  avoid  an  immediate  dip 
lomatic  rupture  over  Ghazee,  by  sending  you  out 
under  my  papers. 

"  I  will  do  so,  if  you  wish.  The  beau  monde  will 
imagine  a  love  escapade  of  Schamyl  the  Circassian. 
You  know  the  headlong  way  of  that  reckless  man 
here.  Disappearance  ;  two  months  of  bliss  ;  a  miss 
ing  lady ;  Italy ;  glimpses  of  the  blue  Mediterra 
nean  through  silvery  olive  branches  ;  the  wanderer's 
return  ;  the  ashes  of  time  drifted  over  the  burning 
lava  of  love.  An  old,  old  story  here — 

Nadya  glares  at  the  mocking  sybarite.  "  Why" 
(he laughs  with  a  gurgling  chuckle),  "they  will  think 
your  blue  eyes  drew  the  wild  prince  from  his  duty." 
She  is  sobbing  now. 

"  Go  now  ! "  (he  says  with  decision).  "  It  is  your 
only  safety.  Otherwise,  if  you  decline  my  protec 
tion,  you  will  be  dragged  before  these  cold  Slavic 
brutes.  They  will  visit  Ghazee's  defection  on  your 
defenceless  head. 

"  Admit    your    Russian    allegiance    and    you    are 


42  PRINCE   SGHAMYLS   WOOING. 

lost.  I  can  now  protect  you.  I  will,  if  you  see  the 
world  through  my  eyes." 

Mustapha  leans  back  in  comfort.  He  has  limed 
his  bird. 

Nadya  thinks  of  the  watchful,  scarred-face  Nubian 
eunuchs  (cimeter  in  hand)  at  the  stone  gates  of 
Osmanli  harems.  Dante's  line  flashes  across  her 
mind. 

"  Lasciate  ogni  speranza  voi  ch'  entrate." 

Still,  a  seraglio  on  the  Bosporus  is  not  Siberia. 

One  flutter  of  the  wings  yet.  The  bird  struggles 
in  the  net. 

"  But — my  character  !  "  Her  eyes  are  streaming 
now. 

"  Sapristi !  My  beauty  !  "  carelessly  remarks  Mus 
tapha.  "  Character  is  merely  comparative.  You  will 
do  very  well  on  the  Bosporus.  Beauty  is  the 
4  sine  qua  non  '  there." 


CHAPTER    III. 

IN  THE  CAVALRY  SCHOOL. — CALLED  BY  GORTSCHA- 
KOFF. — DIMITRl'S  DOOM. — IN  THE  GOLDEN 
HORN. 

Two  days  after  her  submission  to  Mustapha's 
logic,  Nadya  Vronsky  steps  wearily  from  her  sleigh 
to  leave  Russia.  The  Moscow  station  once  again. 

Unattended  save  by  her  maid,  she  drives  to  the 
depot,  leaving  her  apartment  a  1'improviste.  Only 
her  "  batterie  de  toilette,"  jewels,  and  small  belong 
ings  are  in  her  luggage.  She  is  waiting  to  dash 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  43 

quietly  past  Moscow,  Warsaw,  and  Vienna.  Any 
where  !  As  for  her  establishment,  goods,  and  last 
but  not  least  "  debts,"  the  victorious  Mustapha 
quietly  says: 

"  Je  m'en  charge  de  tout." 

The  "dvornik"  has  orders  to  obey  Mustapha's 
man  of  affairs,  who  will  close  up  Mme.  Vronsky's 
personal  matters.  Alas  for  him  ! 

Gloomy  is  the  morning.  In  the  bustling  groups 
a  society  friend  here  touches  a  hat,  there  a  lady 
acquaintance  smiles — no  one  suspects  her  departure. 

Lonely  enough,  without  escort,  her  flitting  unher 
alded  by  "  visites  d'adieu,"  leaving  no  snow-storm 
of  P.  P.  C.  cards  for  the  careless  "  one  thousand  " 
of  the  "  gilded  circle,"  the  countess  stares  sadly  at 
the  environs  of  Petersburg  as  she  rolls  away. 

"  Triste  !  "  It  is  only  when  comfortably  reclin 
ing  in  her  stateroom,  that  she  reviews  the  past 
week ;  then  there  flashes  over  her  mind  the  social 
effect  of  her  flight. 

The  "  maimed  rites  "  of  society  will  cause  clamor  ! 
Sly  Mustapha  appeared  not  at  the  station.  Her 
passports,  funds,  and  instructions,  quietly  furnished 
by  him,  enable  her  to  be  at  ease.  She  is  well  pro 
vided. 

Yet  Nadya  Vronsky  has  left  her  good  name 
behind  her  forever. 

The  clattering  viper  tongues  of  "  les  dames  du 
haut  monde  "  will  dwell  with  cold  sneers  on  her 
singular  taste  in  selecting  the  brutal  Ghazee  as  her 
Abelard. 

"  Lightly  they'll  speak  of  the  spirit  that's  gone." 

Puppet   of   policy  !     Victim  of  wily    Mustapha ! 


44  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

Scapegoat  for  GortschakofF s  diplomatic  unreadiness 
openly  to  disgrace  Ghazee !  "  Quien  sabe!" 

She  is  only  "  rushing  onward  in  the  car  of 
destiny." 

Will  she  be  followed,  dogged,  watched  ?  Do  the 
Russians  hope  to  locate  Ghazee  through  her  pres 
ence? 

Ah,  no  !  There  is  no  present  answer.  Only  that 
this  u  way  out  "  is  absolutely  necessary  to  save  her. 
Constantinople,  perhaps  !  Siberia,  never  ! 

Her  aching  head  falls  on  her  pillow.  The  monot 
onous  click-click  of  the  wheels  brings  sleep  to  her 
eyes.  In  restless  dreams  she  wanders  in  the  land  of 
freedom — the  future.  Ghazee  is  by  her  side,  and — 
and  he  is  kind. 

Waywardness  of  the  heart  of  woman  !  Clinging 
to  the  impossible — dreaming  of  the  unattainable  ! 

Mustapha's  dupe  flies  southward  !  He,  busied 
with  heightening  diplomatic  entanglements,  gives 
only  a  thought  to  his  bird  of  passage. 

"  She  saved  me  an  official  explanation  ;  she  will 
be  useful  down  there,  and  '  not  bad  looking ' — no, 
not  at  all."  (He  purrs  softly  to  himself.) 

It  is  the  time  for  the  sword  to  cut  the  silken 
tangles  of  diplomatic  lying.  Mustapha's  ciphers 
tell  him  the  u  conference  "  will  fail.  It  is  no  longer 
at  Constantinople  a  question  of  what  will  bring  on 
the  struggle,  only  when  !  It  will  come  ! 

The  Porte,  wise  if  slow,  adroit  in  intrigue,  stub 
born  in  resistance,  is  aware  that  for  each  slight 
concession  wary  Ignatief  will  push  forward  an  inso 
lent  new  demand ;  that  behind  him  is  the  world- 
worn  GortschakofT,  soaked  with  the  fiery  spirit 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  45 

essence  of  "  highest  Russian  aggression."  u  Voila 
tout !  " 

Behind  the  two  stands  warlike  Alexander  (who 
has  Catherine's  policy  in  his  heart's  blood),  sword  in 
hand. 

The  gray  masses  of  the  Russian  legions  gather 
from  thousands  of  haunts  (grim  wolves  of  the  North), 
gnashing  their  teeth,  pressing,  toward  the  Danube 
and  the  Caucasus.  "  Cadmus  teeth  !  " 

"  War,"  muses  Mustapha,  "  is  the  application  of 
brute  force  (in  organization)  to  problems  not  to  be 
solved  by  human  reason."  He  expatiates. 

"  It  is  mingled  desire  and  expediency  which  swing 
the  double-handed  sword  of  conquest. 

"  My  work  is  nearly  over.  Let  the  uniformed 
fools  use  powder  and  ball.  /  will  have  a  season  of 
rest. 

"  Pleasant  hours  can  be  passed  by  the  groves  of 
the  Dardanelles ;  ah,  yes,  if  the  '  white  countess  ' 
does  not  go  into  '  heroics.' 

"  But  I'll  find  a  way  to  tame  that  falcon." 


Ahmed  Schamyl  sternly  attaches  himself  to  the 
routine  of  his  profession,  day  by  day. 

Petersburg  (like  all  the  other  great  cities  of  Russia) 
is  now  a  camp,  a  mustering  place,  and  a  grand  school 
of  instruction — how  to  get  cheaply  shot. 

All  these  last  months,  in  droves,  the  shock- 
headed,  blue-eyed,  stalwart  Russians  have  been 
drawn  in  by  myriads  to  learn  one  end  of  a  gun  from 
the  other. 

Gymnastics,  drill,  exercise,  all  the  preparations  of 
the  army  (from  its  squads,  companies,  regiments, 


46  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

divisions,  to  its  unwieldy  corps  d'arm£e)  are  un 
ceasing. 

Supplies,  the  devilish  enginery  of  war,  herds  of 
cattle,  and  mounts  for  the  troops  are  ruthlessly 
scraped  together  for  the  great  campaign.  Moloch 
grins  and  sharpens  his  sickle. 

Your  war  is  a  huge  consumer  of  necessaries,  and 
with  mad  license,  unbridled  luxury,  human  passion 
runs  riot ;  its  awful  course  sweeps  along,  blasting, 
burning,  destroying. 

Blood  and  crime,  wassail  and  madness,  attend  it. 
The  wild-eyed  Maenads  are  in  ecstasies.  Cosmo 
politan  human  harpies,  male  and  female,  flock  be 
hind  the  crimson  stains  of  the  bloody  feet  of  military 
glory.  Via  la  gloire  !  "  Qa  ira." 

In  the  riding-school  of  St.  Petersburg  the  model 
battalions  of  officers  are  receiving  the  final  touches 
of  their  preparation  to  meet  the  Turkish  cavalry. 

An  unrivalled  swordsman,  a  horseman  of  classic 
elegance,  quick,  active,  in  the  flower  of  youth,  Ah 
med  Schamyl  is  second  in  command  of  this  instruc 
tion  of  the  u elite  of  the  elite." 

As  he  reins  up  his  superb  steed  in  the  centre  of 
the  hall,  giving  his  battalion  a  rest  (while  Mus- 
tapha  ponders  over  his  impending  departure), 
Prince  Schamyl  sees  his  friend  Captain  PlatofI  dash 
up,  mounted,  to  the  far  entrance.  An  orderly 
salutes,  brings  him  a  message  for  one  word's  confer 
ence. 

Galloping  over,  leaving  his  cavaliers  at  a  rest,  Ah 
med  swings  from  the  saddle. 

Paul  whispers  a  word  or  two  in  his  ear. 

Schamyl's   face  grows  marble  in  its  pallor.     "  An 


PRINCE   SCHAMYL  S   WOOING.  47 

aide-de-camp  is  on  his  way  with  orders  for  Major 
Ahmed  Schamyl." 

Brother  Ivan's  quickness  has  forewarned  Paul. 

There  is  no  time  to  be  lost. 

"  Remember  your  pledge  to  me,"  Paul  whispers. 
"  On  your  honor,  no  excitement  !  " 

"  I  will  obey  you,  Paul — only,  if  it  is  dishonor,  I 
will  not  live." 

He  signals  for  his  horse.  The  group  of  generals 
are  entering  the  distant  arch  for  their  morning 
inspection. 

"All  is  well  yet,  only  Ghazee's  departure  and  dis 
grace  is  now  public." 

Vaulting  into  his  saddle,  Prince  Ahmed  sweeps 
into  the  centre  of  the  hall,  brings  his  knightly 
riders  to  a  "  salute,"  and  awaits  orders. 

It  is  a  gallant  sight.  The  "  expectancy  and  rose 
of  the  fair  state  "  are  here,  sabre  in  hand,  saluting 
the  grim  chiefs,  who  are  to  send  them  all  whirling 
on  the  turbaned  foe,  in  that  last  mad  ride,  where 
Death  is  the  goal. 

Russia's  best  blood  flows  as  freely  on  the  battle 
field  as  the  rush  of  the  icy  waters  of  Neva,  in  the 
spring  floods,  sweeping  to  the  sea. 

Hassan,  the  scarred  Circassian,  standing  by  his 
master's  second  horse,  casts  adoring  eyes  on  his 
chief.  The  unsubdued  old  warrior  curses  deeply,  as 
he  recognizes  Gourko,  Lazareff,  Skobeloff,  and  others 
of  the  men  who  are  to  throw  the  gray  coats  on  the 
Turkish  lines  in  the  iron  game  of  war.  Giaour 
devils  ! 

Hassan  will  follow  his  master  through  battle 
smoke ;  but,  were  it  not  for  the  young  prince, 


48  PRINCE    SCHAMYL'S    WOOING. 

his  aged  hand  would  swing  a  sabre  on  the  other 
side. 

An  officer  leaves  the  gilded  throng  when  the 
salute  is  acknowledged,  and  advances  to  Schamyl. 

He  hands  him  an  order.  The  prince  glances  at  it, 
turns  to  his  mounted  adjutant,  gives  him  the  order, 
and  sits  motionless  as  the  adjutant  rides  out  and 
reads  it. 

Every  officer  burns  to  read  the  secret  meaning 
between  its  lines. 

"  SPECIAL   ORDERS    OF   THE   DAY. 

"  Major  Prince  Ahmed  Schamyl  is  relieved  from 
duty  with  the  '  Model  Battalion,'  and  will  report 
forthwith  to  the  General  Commanding  for  instruc 
tions." 

There  is  silence  ;  when  the  words  naming  his  suc 
cessor  are  heard,  that  officer  rides  out  from  the 
ranks  and  assumes  command. 

Schamyl's  hand  drops  to  his  pistol  butt. 

Now  is  the  time  to  escape  infamy  ! 

"  Blood  pays  all  debts  !  " 

And  yet  his  promise  to  Paul  ties  him  down ! 
He  will. wait!  In  the  very  presence  of  fierce  old 
Gourko  (to  whom  he  must  report),  he  will  avenge 
himself  on  cruel  Fate.  He  will  not  live  to  be  a 
discarded,  dishonored  man  ! 

Riding  over  to  the  circle  of  generals,  he  dis 
mounts  and  sends  his  horses  out  to  await  him. 

Stepping  up  to  the  officer  who  brought  the  man 
date,  Prince  Schamyl  salutes  and  asks  him  when 
and  where  he  shall  report. 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  49 

Exchanging  a  few  words  with  the  chief  of  staff, 
the  officer  bids  Schamyl  report  for  orders  at  once 
to  General  Gourko,  who  is  the  centre  of  the  official 
galaxy.  He  is  also  commandant  general  of  St. 
Petersburg. 

Prince  Ahmed  walks  up  and  salutes  the  stern 
old  warrior,  who  dreams  not  yet  of  the  fresh  laurel 
wreaths  waiting  for  him  in  the  Balkan  passes. 

This  simple  formula  over,  Gourko  growls  (with 
a  slight  softening  of  his  ursine  inflections),  "  Pray  re 
main  with  us,  Prince.  Breakfast  with  me  this  morn 
ing.  I  will  give  you  your  instructions  personally." 

The  blood  surges  away  from  Ahmed's  heart.  It 
flows  back.  He  draws  a  breath  of  relief. 

This  welcome — before  the  glittering  circle — tells 
him  that  even  iron  Fate  has  its  pleasant  surprises  ! 

Soldier  as  he  is,  Schamyl  knows  that  some  high 
purpose  has  claimed  him — not  an  official  disgrace. 
So  open,  so  brilliant,  so  public,  the  selection  is  a  bit 
of  neat  military  flattery. 

"  The  Russian  bear  can  tap  delicately  with  his 
iron  paws." 

Falling  in  with  the  train,  after  the  "  salut  de 
ceremonie,"  Ahmed  wonders  how  the  brief  duties 
of  the  morning  can  drag  along.  Minutes  are  hours 
to  him  now  !  What  are  his  orders  ? 

All  things  have  an  end,  even  morning  drills.  In 
a  half  hour,  the  coterie  of  "  ranking  chiefs  "  is  dis 
cussing  a  splendid  repast  in  the  officers'  club  at 
tached.  The  privilege  of  "  entertaining  their  supe 
riors"  is  freely  extended  to  the  swell  "  messes"  of 
Petersburg. 

After  the  coffee  and  cigars,  Schamyl,  seated  with 
4 


50  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

the  leading  staff  officers,  receives  a  nod  from  the 
general.  Approaching,  he  seats  himself  in  a  chair 
indicated  by  the  old  chief.  All  eyes  are  turned  on 
him  ! 

The  moment  has  come  ! 

Gourko  is  in  excellent  humor.  The  wines  and 
meats  appeased  the  critical  gastronome  ;  for  Gourko 
is  as  fond  of  eating  as  of  fighting,  and  much  more 
delicate  in  the  first. 

"  Major,  I  have  been  directed  to  send  you  to 
Prince  Gortschakoff  (personally)  for  a  special  and 
detached  service.  You  had  better  see  him  at  once. 
I  am  sorry  I  may  not  see  you  on  the  Danube,  but 
you  will  find  plenty  of  service  where  you  are  going. 

"If  you  go  to  Armenia,  we  may  meet  in  Con 
stantinople.  I  hope  so.  I  wish  you  every  good 
fortune,  for  the  minister  of  war  told  me  you  had 
been  selected  on  account  of  the  trust  the  Emperor 
has  in  your  loyalty  and  knowledge  of  the  Caucasus. 

"  A  glass  of  wine,  Major.  You  had  better  report 
at  once." 

Ahmed  Schamyl  has  already  faced  his  man  at  ten 
paces,  when  his  life  depended  on  the  trigger  finger. 
His  nerve  never  failed  him  yet ;  but  the  wine-glass 
trembles  in  his  hand  as  he  touches  the  general's  cup. 

He  rises,  bows,  and,  saluting  his  friends,  leaves  the 
room. 

His  ears  are  ringing  with  Gourko's  words  :  "  The 
Emperor's  trust  in  his  loyalty  !  " 

"  His  knowledge  of  the  Caucasus." 

Great  heavens !  There  could  be  no  more  public 
way  of  setting  a  seal  on  any  foolish  canard  of  the 
moment. 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  51 

For  the  great  Emperor's  words  reach  far.  In  so 
ciety,  in  the  clubs,  through  the  army,  the  Czar's 
trust  is  a  golden  star  lighting  his  way. 

As  Schamyl  sweeps  down  the  broad  streets  on 
his  way  to  the  ministry,  Hassan  clatters  heavily  in 
his  rear.  The  young  major  has  sworn  to  himself 
that  his  head,  heart,  and  hand  shall  never  fail  the 
princely  sovereign  who  has  so  openly  trusted  his 
yet  untried  loyalty. 

He  will  keep  his  pistol  bullets  for  the  Turkish 
enemies  of  the  aged  Czar  Alexander. 

Prince  Gortschakoff's  cabinet  in  the'Foreign  office 
is  a  place  of  studious  retirement.  Dignity  and  re 
pose  reign  in  these  halls  of  thought. 

Massed  books  of  references,  maps  of  the  political 
worlds  of  the  past,  present,  and  future,  serried  port 
folios  of  papers  (each  clause  a  state  secret),  and  the 
wires  of  the  Czar  tying  this  sanctum  to  the  far  ends 
of  the  earth,  are  the  weapons  in  reserve  here. 

Grave-faced  secretaries,  alert  guardians,  and  stern 
sentinels  watch  over  the  archives  of  the  huge  em 
pire  of  the  Romanoffs. 

At  a  table,  littered  with  the  debris  of  toil,  aged 
Gortschakoff  scans  the  translations  of  General  Igna- 
tief's  ciphers.  .  .  . 

Three  men  to-day  hold  the  destiny  of  Russia  in 
their  hands.  The  Czar  is  the  child  of  autocracy ; 
Gortschakoff,  a  hero  of  countless  diplomatic  battles, 
the  son  of  Russia's  old  genius  ;  and  Nicolas  Igna- 
tief,  resolute,  aspiring,  accomplished,  an  embodi 
ment  of  the  polished  Tartar  of  the  nineteenth  cen 
tury — this  is  the  great  triumvirate. 


52  FRINGE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

An  attendant  announces  Major  Schamyl.  The 
prince  takes  up  a  precis  not  larger  than  a  visiting 
card. 

His  nod  admits  the  young  soldier. 

"  Be  seated,  Major,"  he  observes  in  a  gentle  voice. 
Gortschakoffs  beardless  face  is  as  refined  as  any 
marquis  of  the  "  veille  Roche." 

Ahmed's  pulses  are  throbbing.  This  parchment- 
faced  sphinx  would  give  him  an  order  to  go  to  his 
death,  without  a  change  of  inflection. 

The  premier  observes  his  visitor  narrowly. 

"  I  desire  you,  Major,  to  prepare  to  leave  instantly 
for  Odessa.  You  have  been  selected  for  special 
duty,  under  the  personal  orders  of  General  Ignatief 
at  Constantinople.  A  gunboat  will  convey  you  to 
the  Bosporus.  You  will  not  leave  the  vessel  until 
sent  for  by  the  general.  He  will  have  news  of 
your  arrival.  You  will  go  ashore  and  confer  with 
him  at  night.  Conceal  your  identity.  Avoid  uni 
form." 

Ahmed's  bow  acknowledges  his  understanding  of 
these  directions. 

"  You  will  be  attached  to  the  foreign  bureau 
until  hostilities  open  (should  they  occur).  My  sec 
retary  will  bring  you  to  your  quarters  an  advance 
'sum  allotted  to  you.  General  Ignatief  will  supply 
any  needs.  You  are  not  to  speak  of  your  mission, 
of  your  destination,  to  any  one,  even  here.  Abso 
lute  secrecy  is  required. 

"  Make  every  preparation  for  a  long  stay.  You 
will  not  return  here  till  the  crisis  is  over,  or  the 
campaign  finished.  I  give  you  no  instructions  here. 
General  Ignatief  will  direct  you  in  all.  Report  your 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  53 

arrival  at  Odessa  to  me,  through  the  commanding 
general.  He  will  give  the  gunboat  its  orders. 

"  When  can  you  leave  ?  " 

Gortschakoff  pauses,  his  cold  gray  eye  fixed  on 
the  youth. 

"  Prince,  I  shall  take  the  next  train." 

"  Good,"  simply  says  the  old  premier.  He  rises. 
It  is  a  dismissal. 

He  holds  out  his  hand. 

"  Prince  Schamyl,  the  Emperor  trusts  you.  I  hope 
you  will  have  an  audience  on  your  return.  I  believe 
that  our  gracious  Emperor  will  be  satisfied  with  you. 
I  am  charged  by  him  to  say  that  he  regards  you  as  a 
Russian  officer  and  a  loyal  subject.  You  may  leave 
your  family  honor  in  his  hands." 

Ahmed  bows  over  the  aged  man's  hands,  whose 
finger  tips  he  touches.  The  exquisite  courtesy  of 
the  old  premier  has  won  his  heart.  He  with 
draws. 

While  the  young  warrior  bounds  down  the  stairs, 
his  armed  heels  ringing  loudly  in  the  silent  halls,  old 
Gortschakoff  seats  himself. 

"  A  gallant  fellow,"  he  mutters.  "  Ah,  I  was  young 
once  !  " 

The  days  when  the  great  Nicholas  leaned  on  him 
sweep  back  from  the  mists  of  the  buried  years.  In 
his  old  age,  he  is  the  Richelieu  of  another  Czar,  for 
Russia  draws  the  sword  in  fight  once  more.  The 
cannon  will  roar  around  the  Euxine  again. 

Gortschakoff  sighs  as  he  wonders  whether  the  fat 
tened  ravens  of  the  fields  will  be  the  only  gainers 
by  the  struggle. 

Folding  his  arms  behind  him,  the  old  man  walks 


54  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

to  a  wall-map  of  Europe.  His  gaze  is  riveted  on 
the  speck  marked  Constantinople. 

"  Ah  !  if  England — if  England —  His  revery 
is  broken — another  visitor  ! 

He  seats  himself.  He  has  forgotten  Prince 
Schamyl  already,  for  he  has  sent  him  forth  to  life 
or  death. 

"In  the  name  of  the  Czar." 

Straight  as  a  line  can  be  traced,  Ahmed  gallops 
to  his  quarters.  His  heart  bounds  in  his  bosom. 
Hassan  is  off  toward  the  barracks  with  a  card  to  Paul. 

"  Come  instantly  to  me  ;  I  leave  in  an  hour !  " 

Before  Platoff's  sleigh  draws  up,  Schamyl's  prep 
arations  are  half  made.  The  messenger  from  the 
foreign  office  arrives  and  leaves  the  sum  of  twenty 
thousand  roubles  in  notes.  He  bows  as  he  says, 
"This  is  a  personal  allowance  for  your  individual 
expenses ;  only  give  me  a  memorandum,  your  High 
ness." 

As  he  leaves,  Paul  Platoff  bursts  into  the  room. 
A  few  words  to  Hassan  cause  him  to  join  the  body- 
servant  in  packing.  En  route  ! 

It  needs  only  Ahmed's  happy  eyes  to  tell  Paul 
all  is  well. 

As  the  friends  seat  themselves,  Ahmed  cries : 

"  Paul,  I  give  my  life  to  the  Emperor  !  I  am  going 
at  .once.  I  cannot  tell  you  where.  It  is  a  trust 
and  an  honor.  I  go  from  the  Moscow  station  on  the 
next  train.  I  leave  my  horses  to  you.  Take  them 
to  the  field.  You  can  trust  Kara,  the  black,  with 
your  life.  I  leave  my  dvornik  here.  I  want  my 
campaign  baggage  sent  by  the  Volga  railroad  to 


PRINCE    SCHAMYL  S    WOOING.  55 

Vladikaukas.  Let  the  man  go  with  it  and  wait  my 
orders  there  by  telegraph.  There  is  nothing  else. 
Let  him  apply  to  you,  and  you  settle  everything." 

Paul's  eyes  open  wide  as  Ahmed  dashes  off  an 
order  on  his  bankers  for  Paul's  use. 

"  Send  my  letters  on  as  I  telegraph. 

"  Now,  dear  old  boy,"  cries  Ahmed  (with  a  glance 
at  his  watch),  "  we  will  break  bread  together.  We 
shall  not  meet  till  the  last  shot  is  fired,  I  fear." 

The  repast  is  on  the  table.  While  the  friends 
make  a  dash  at  the  luncheon,  Hassan  appears. 

"  Do  I  go  with  his  Highness?" 

Ahmed  starts.  His  instructions  covered  no  other 
man.  Well,  he  can  send  him  back  from  Odessa. 

"  Get  a  sleigh  for  you  and  the  baggage,"  Schamyl 
cries. 

Before  the  Burgundy  is  emptied,  Hassan's  kit  is 
made — a  soldier's  cloak,  his  saddle,  wallets,  the 
"  chaska "  of  twenty  years'  service,  his  tobacco 
pouches,  and  his  pistols. 

Prince  Schamyl's  luggage  and  arms  are  packed  so 
as  to  disguise  their  nature. 

Five  minutes  suffice  to  start  the  retainer  to  the 
station. 

Ahmed's  dress  is  already  changed.  His  heavy 
cloak  with  its  sable  collar,  and  otter  turban,  are 
those  of  the  travelling  noble.  In  a  dark  gray  tunic 
and  high  boots,  he  looks  the  type  of  a  wealthy 
traveller. 

Pockets  ?  Yes  ;  the  notes  in  his  wallet,  his  staff- 
map,  passports,  revolver,  and  a  couple  of  books  to 
lighten  the  tedium  of  the  ride  past  Moscow  and 
down  the  Kherson. 


56  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

It  is  time  to  leave.  One  glass  at  parting.  Paul's 
mind  flies  back  to  Ghazee.  They  drain  one  cup  to 
the  "  Rose  of  Tiflis."  There  are  smiles  of  mean 
ing. 

Ahmed  gives  a  few  orders  to  his  bewildered  man 
of  affairs.  Thank  heaven,  Paul  can  close  up  the 
details  ! 

They  are  off !  As  the  snow  is  spurned  away  by 
the  steeds,  Paul  says, -"  Ahmed,  I  divine  your  path. 
May  it  lead  you  to  Tiflis.  Beware  of  Ghazee's 
subtle  deviltry.  Watch  over  Princess  Maritza.  God 
help  her  if  she  ever  fell  in  the  power  of  your  brother! 
His  plans  include  her  future  in  some  yet  unhatched 
scheme." 

Ahmed  hurriedly  says  :  "  I  thank  you,  Paul.  You 
shall  hear  my  news  by  telegraph  and  letter.  Keep 
me  advised  of  everything. 

"  You  will  watch  over  my  name  !  " 

Paul  presses  his  hand.  "  Leave  that  to  me.  All 
know  your  standing  since  the  orders  of  this  morn 
ing.  Before  night  every  pretty  woman  in  Peters 
burg  will  know  that  you  breakfasted  with  Gourko. 
That  is  enough.  We  need  no  newspapers  here  while 
we  have  the  ladies." 

Paul's  laugh  rings  out  gayly.  His  friend  goes  in 
the  path  of  honor. 

Slipping  through  the  throng,  tickets  are  quickly 
purchased.  A  glance  at  Schamyl's  passport  makes 
the  railway  official  open  his  dull  eyes.  It  is  an  im 
perial  special  passport  of  the  highest  grade,  handed 
him  by  Gortschakoff's  secretary. 

There  is  ten  minutes  in  the  stateroom  before  leav 
ing.  Schamyl  "  en  mufti  "  would  set  every  tongue 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  57 

to  wagging  if  recognized.  On  the  long  stone  plat 
forms  merry  laughter,  careless  chatter,  sighs  and 
sobs  mingle. 

The  Moscow  station  is  like  the  wide,  wide  world— 
a  place  of  incessant  meetings  and  partings.  Joy  and 
sadness  wandering  hand  in  hand — the  one  blind,  the 
other  halting  sadly  in  useless  sorrow. 

Schamyl  and  Platoff  review  their  comradeship  in 
a  few  last  glances  as  they  gaze  fondly  on  each  other. 
This  will  be  no  holiday  campaign.  Russian  honors 
are  won  in  the  red  whirl  of  battle.  They  will  chase 
the  bubble  reputation  on  varied  fields,  and  far  from 
each  other. 

Still  it  is  "  cor  unum,  vise  diversae."  Clanging 
bells  tell  of  the  parting  hour.  Last  words  are  in 
order.  Ahmed's  voice  trembles. 

"  Paul,  you  must  go  soon.  If  I  never  come  back, 
remember  you  have  been  my  only  brother.  I  will 
tell  you  yet  of  my  quest.  Be  brave,  fortunate, 
happy  !  Come  back  a  general." 

PlatofTs  eyes  glisten  as  unearthly  shrieks'  of  the 
whistle  announce  the  starting. 

"  Ahmed  !  friend  and  brother  !  May  God  guard 
you  !  Beware  of  Ghazee's  treachery.  I  wait  for 
your  glory. 

"  Prince  of  the  Caucasus,  stand  always  for  the 
Czar." 

A  last  embrace !  Paul  dashes  off  the  train, 
stumbling  over  a  man  clambering  in.  As  he  darts 
past,  Prince  Schamyl  throws  the  door  shut.  It  was 
Dimitri,  the  Greek  arch-villain  and  pander,  spy  of 
Ghazee ! 

With  a  scream  the  train  tears  away  in  full  swing. 


58  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

Ahmed  dares  not  show  himself  to  watch  PlatofT 
straining  his  eyes  after  the  retreating  vans. 

Who  set  the  Greek  on  his  track  ?  This  conjecture 
busied  Ahmed.  Was  he  returning  to  the  Levant 
on  some  secret  mission  of  the  deserter,  or  merely 
fleeing  the  wrath  of  the  police? 

Call  it  safety  watch,  intuition,  or  chicanery.  It 
was  a  master  stroke  of  the  sly  Mustapha  to  set 
Dimitri  to  dog  the  movements  of  the  Circassian. 

A  hurried  secret  report  of  Ahmed's  departure 
sufficed  to  suggest  to  the  Ottoman  lago  the  plan 
of  dogging  Ahmed  to  the  end  of  the  journey. 

Schamyl  remembers  the  injunction  of  Gortscha- 
koff.  He  leaves  not  the  car  till  Moscow  is  reached. 
A  sight  of  his  passport  causes  the  train  guard  to 
supply  all  his  wants  en  voyage,  and  leave  him  alone 
in  his  stateroom.  All  obey  the  Czar  ! 

Darkness  and  wintry  chill  wrap  Moscow  as  the 
train  rushes  in.  Hassan  has  orders  not  to  approach 
his  master  until  Odessa  is  reached,  and  even  there 
to  wait' with  the  unmarked  luggage  till  sent  for  from 
headquarters. 

An  hour's  stay  at  Moscow  decides  Ahmed  to  ven 
ture  out  in  the  darkness  for  exercise  after  his  even 
ing  meal  in  the  compartment.  Muffling  up,  he 
descends,  and,  passing  out  of  the  station,  breasts  the 
wintry  winds. 

Glorious  draughts  of  ozone  fill  his  lungs.  Tramp 
ing  up  and  down  with  the  zest  of  a  mountaineer,  his 
thoughts  wander  to  this  mysterious  quest. 

Ah  !  the  train  bell  recalls  him.  Carelessly  swing 
ing  around,  his  face  covered  to  the  eyes  from  the 
icy  blast,  as  he  crosses  the  dark  lane  to  enter  the 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  59 

station  he  receives  a  stab  full  in  the  breast. 
Treachery  ! 

It  staggers  him !  With  a  nervous  clutch,  he 
grasps  at  a  dark  form,  which  flees  away  down  the 
long,  outer  street  of  the  station.  He  dares  not  fire 
his  pistol.  It  would  betray  his  identity.  Bewil 
dered,  he  presses  his  hand  to  his  breast.  Yes,  his 
clothes  are  cut  !  He  dashes  into  the  station  and 
regains  his  compartment. 

He  is  not  hurt.  Locking  his  door  he  examines 
his  tunic — slashed  over  the  heart !  He  smiles,  in 
vacant  wonder,  as  he  draws  out  his  tough  campaign 
map  case.  The  assassin's  knife  has  split  the  strong 
leather.  The  folded  map  alone  saved  him. 

The  train  is  now  rolling  on.  A  cowardly  cut, 
indeed.  "  What  motive  ?  "  "  Robbery  ?  "  "  No  !  " 
11  Revenge  ?  "  Schamyl  has  no  blood  feud.  "  Assas 
sination  ?"  "Why?"  Ah,  the  swinging  stroke 
recalls  the  work  of  Levantine  bravos. 

"  Was  that  dark  spectre  Dimitri?" 

Perhaps.  Yet  he  must  make  no  outcry.  His 
sacred  mission !  Examining  his  heavy  revolver,  he 
slings  it  around  his  neck  and  shoulder  with  a  cord 
— a  friend  in  need. 

The  door  fastenings  are  right. 

Lynx-eyed  must  be  the  villain  who  will  now  catch 
Schamyl  off  his  guard.  He  remembers  that  he 
bears  the  Emperor's  orders.  Defeat  is  dishonor. 

Calling  the  guard,  a  man  is  posted  at  the  end  of 
the  car  to  watch  the  compartment  on  peril  of  his  life. 
A  glimpse  at  the  imperial  passport  insures  faithful 
ness.  The  White  Czar  speaks  in  its  magic  lines. 

Two   days  later  Ahmed  throws  himself    into    a 


60  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

carriage  at  Odessa.  In  ten  minutes  he  is  with  the 
general  commanding.  An  officer  is  sent  to  the 
station  for  Hassan  and  the  baggage.  They  drive 
direct  to  the  quay,  where  the  government  de 
spatch  boat  Scevoutch  has  full  steam  up.  Prince 
Schamyl's  telegraphic  report  to  Gortschakoff  is 
sent  from  the  general's  headquarters.  It  is  followed 
by  the  official  despatch  that  the  saucy  Secvoutck 
is  out  of  the  harbor.  Her  last  boats  and  stragglers 
were  putting  off  for  the  vessel  as  the  general's  aide 
escorted  Schamyl  to  the  cutter  waiting  for  him. 
He  is  muffled  in  a  huge  boat  cloak. 

Schamyl  has  a  cabin  assigned  him  by  the  com 
mander,  who  has  received  his  instructions. 

Dashing  out  into  the  Euxine,  the  swift  gun-boat 
tosses  the  spray  high  in  air.  Night  falls.  The 
glorious  white  stars  sweep  over  the  dark  blue  vault 
above.  The  prince  walks  the  deck  late  ;  his  brow 
is  fanned  by  the  breeze  blowing  down  from  the 
giant  mountains  of  his  youth. 

Leaning  over  the  low  bulwarks,  he  watches  the 
phosphorescent  waves  break  in  showers  of  yellow 
diamonds. 

Onward,  out  into  the  mystic  night  and  the  hush 
of  the  sea,  the  quivering  ocean  rover  ever  speeds 
toward  the  eternal  sea  gates  of  the  empire  of  the 
East. 

Schamyl  dreams  of  the  pine-crested  slopes  of  the 
Caucasus,  the  overhanging  mountains  of  the  north, 
and  the  bowers  of  Tiflis.  Will  he,  indeed,  see  the 
spirited  beauty  of  Georgia  once  more  ? 

Ah!  Paul's  warning.  His  brother  Ghazee  !  What 
deviltry  is  following  the  fugitive  in  his  wanderings? 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  61 

Schamyl  doubts  not  that  Ghazee  will  lurk  along 
the  border  to  aid  the  Ottoman  hordes.  A  squall 
strikes  the  plunging  vessel.  Breaking  in  gusts  of 
rain,  it  floods  the  decks. 

Flashes  of  blue  lightning  tear  across  the  now 
blackening  sky.  Groping  back  along  the  deserted 
deck,  Ahmed  stumbles  against  a  man,  who  lurches 
heavily  against  him,  as  the  ship  rises  to  the  buffet 
ing  waves. 

In  an  instant,  a  pair  of  sinewy  arms  are  round 
his  waist  ;  bending  under  him,  the  stranger  with  a 
quick  turn  has  Ahmed  half  over  the  rail. 

One  wild  swing  of  the  vessel  makes  the  struggling 
scoundrel  slip.  No  word  save  a  muttered  curse 
escapes  his  lips.  Is  he  a  madman  ? 

In  an  instant,  the  young  Circassian,  by  a  giant 
effort,  bodily  hurls  the  assailant  over  into  the  boil 
ing  surge.  A  flash  of  lightning  shows  him  the  dis 
torted  face  of  Dimitri  the  Greek.  He  sinks,  with 
a  wild  howl,  half  uttered.  The  storm-driven  boat, 
sweeping  over  the  foam,  leaves  the  drowning 
wretch  far  astern. 

Prince  Schamyl  staggers  into  the  cabin.  Sum 
moning  the  commander,  the  ship  is  searched. 
Ahmed  reveals  only  his  official  order  of  supreme 
command,  handed  him  by  the  general  at  Odessa. 

Nothing  is  known  save  that  the  unknown  slunk 
on  board  with  the  baggage  boats.  He  was  thought 
to  be  a  legation  servant. 

Hassan,  roused  now,  sleeps  like  a  dog,  crouched 
before  his  master's  door,  sabre  in  hand. 

Schamyl  recognizes  his  brother's  subtle  work  in 
the  midnight  stab  and  the  deadly  grapple  on  the 


62  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

deck.  It  is  the  curse  of  the  Sultan's  amulet. 
Sleeping  in  uneasy  dreams,  when  he  wakes  it  is 
under  the  fringing  cypresses  of  the  Seraglio  Point 
on  the  Golden  Horn. 

CHAPTER    IV. 

THE  WHITE  COUNTESS'S  BOUDOIR.— WITH  GENERAL 
IGNATIEF  IN  CONSTANTINOPLE.— WHERE  IS 
YOUR  BROTHER?— ON  THE  BRIDGE  OF  KARA- 
KEIN. 

PACING   a    long   room    overlooking  the  Seraglio 
Point,    Nadya  Vronsky  crushes  a  telegram  in  her 
clinched    hand.       Constantinople    brings    her   love- 
torn  bosom    no    peace.     "  Fool    and    dolt ! 
make  no  meaning  of  this.     Where  is  Ghazee  ?  " 

Throwing  herself  on  a  couch,  she  tries  to  decipher 
the  veiled  despatch  of  Dimitri. 

For  nearly  two  years  the  wily  Greek  has  been  the 
Figaro  of  her  lover  Ghazee. 

While  Ghazee  calmly  ran  the  round  of  pleasure, 
Dimitri  saw  the  countess  in  her  highest  exaltation, 
in  the  abasement  of  her  sorrow,  and  the  weakness 
of  impotent  rage.  He  has  all  his  master's  social 

secrets. 

Though  never  lifting  his  eyes   to  the 
image  before  him,  Dimitri's  heart  is  yet  on  fire. 

He  wonders  if  Ghazee  knows  the  unquenchable 
flame  of  love  which  glows  in  that  woman's  marble 

heart. 

Stone  to  all  else,  she  is  mere  wax  to    Ghazee, 

melting  at  his  touch. 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  63 

For  long  months  the  greedy.  Greek  has  privately 
sold  the  gossip  of  his  brutal  master's  movements  to 
the  one  woman  who  loves  him.  Her  argus  eye  fol 
lows  his  path  by  day  and  night. 

When  he  clutched  the  crisp  hundred-rouble  notes 
Nadya  threw  at  him  in  their  last  interview  he  would 
not  tell  her  he  was  paid  twice  as  well  as  she  could 
pay  him  to  disguise  Ghazee's  movements. 

Mustapha,  with  diplomatic  acumen,  reasoned  out 
the  policy  of  the  Russian  government. 

One  princely  brother  should  find  the  other.  A 
private  feud  between  them  might  remove  the  Mo 
hammedan  aspirant  to  the  Armenian  crown.  The 
fugitive  Guardsman  !  The  Russian  deserter  ! 

Mustapha  the  ambassador — a  Moslem  of  the  faith 
of  the  Sunis — burns  with  shame  to  know  that  the 
great  Sultan,  who  now  rides  to  St.  Sophia  in  splen 
dor,  is  the  son  of  a  Christian  Armenian  woman. 

Mustapha  was  in  Constantinople  when  Sultan 
Abdul-Aziz,  after  a  fearful  night  of  storm  and 
struggle,  lay  in  his  royal  pleasure  rooms,  stark  and 
stiff,  yielding  up  his  life  to  a  pair  of  sharp  scissors 
in  the  hands  of  a  ferocious  Nubian  eunuch.  The 
purple  marks  of  fingers  on  his  throat  were  never 
seen.  His  veins  were  said  to  have  been  opened — a 
suggested  suicide. 

The  fearful  butchery  of  three  cabinet  ministers  at 
Constantinople  was  not  all  in  all  explained  by  the 
hanging  of  the  desperate  Circassian  Major,  who 
killed  nine  men  in  all  before'  a  bayonet  in  his  spine 
paralyzed  him. 

The  Softa's  riot  of  mad  thousands,  wild  with 
frantic  rage  ;  dull  Sultan  Murad's  election  to  the 


64  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

throne  of  Turkey,  and  his  early  deposition— all  these 
dark  events  Mustapha  well  knew  were  the  work  of 
that  Russian  prince  of  deceivers,  Nicolas  Ignatief. 

Yet  now,  Sultan  Abdul  Hamid— the  son  of  an 
Armenian  Christian  beauty— wields  the  sabre  of 
Solyman,  and  is  lord  of  the  Bosporus. 

He  is  Ghazee  Schamyl's  best  friend.  Even  the 
"  Sheik  ul  Islam  "  has  fallen  before  Ignatief  s  in 
trigues.  To-day  even  the  great  statesman  Midhat 
Pacha,  Grand  Vizier,  is  an  exile  in  disgrace. 

Ignatief,  under  a  strong  guard  of  Russian  marines 
laughs  at  the  storms  of  Istambol  and  ^the  wreck  of 
thrones.     It  is  his  diplomatic  "  metier." 

Mustapha's  advices   prove   that   the  new   Sultan 
and  Prince  Ghazee  Schamyl  are  close  friends, 
are  both  Armenians.     So  are  Melikoff,  Lazareff,  and 
the  throng  of    Russian    generals  in   Asia  Mil 

Armenians  all. 

In  chattering  fear,  he  cannot  leave  to  Nadya 
Vronsky  the  power  to  sell  Ghazee's  secret 

Ignatief.  - 

Dimitri— the  all  observing-has  sold  the  confi 
dence  of  the  White  Countess  to  Mustapha.  A 
double  traitor. 

The  ambassador  smiles  as  he  thinks  she  dwells  in 
his  palace  at  Istambol,  yet  knows  not  of  Ghaze. 
near  presence. 

Dimitri  on  the  track  of  Ahmed,  in  his  flight  south 
despatches  to  Nadya  Vronsky  that  the  younger  son 
of  the  great  rebel  goes  to  Odessa. 

It  is  a  Moscow  telegram  the  countess  dreams 
over.  Where  is  Ghazee?  Prince  Ahmed  is  com 
ing  Will  he,  too,  join  his  brother  in  the  Caucasus  ? 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  65 

Cooped  up  in  a  golden  palace,  the  countess  pon 
ders.  From  Odessa  a  second  telegram  clears  up  a 
part  of  the  puzzle. 

"  The  bird  comes  on  the  Seevoutch  despatch.  I 
fly  also.  His  mate  lost."  Then  Ghazee  is  not 
tracked  by  Dimitri.  But  the  Greek  will  find  him — 
must  find  him  ! 

To  bribe  the  watchers  at  the  gate  to  set  spies  to 
give  her  warning  of  the  arrival  of  any  Russian 
cruiser,  is  any  easy  conclusion  for  the  love-sick 
woman.  Ghazee  is  still  missing.  His  brother  must 
surely  know. 

Dimitri — servant,  thief,  and  spy — has  sent  her  his 
friend  at  Constantinople — his  "  alter  ego  " — to  aid 
until  he  can  reap  the  golden  harvest  alone. 

While  the  despatches  lie  idle  in  her  lap,  Nadya's 
heart  beats  time  by  dragging  seconds.  Her  jewels 
—her  very  all — she  will  give  Dimitri  to  discover  to 
her  Ghazee's  abiding-place. 

For  her  only  safety,  her  only  means  of  avoiding 
the  golden  barriers,  making  her  cage  a  prison,  is  to 
leave  Constantinople  under  Ghazee's  sheltering  arm. 

From  her  windows  she  can  see  the  whole  sweep 
of  the  Golden  Horn.  No  Russian  flag  greets  her 
eyes. 

Long  in  the  watches  of  a  weary  night  she  eyes 
the  narrow  inlet. 

Before  the  song-bird  takes  up  the  nightingale's 
refrain,  as  morning  smiles  over  the  Dardanelles, 
her  trusty  spy — Dimitri's  friend — eager  and  excited, 
tells  her  that  the  Seevoutch  tosses  on  the  waves 
below  the  Karakein  bridge. 

Ahmed  Schamyl  is  on  board,  for  the  crafty  Greek 
5 


66  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

as  a  fruit  pedler  has  visited  the  gunboat.  He 
knows  the  young  prince  by  Dimitri's  sketch.  Alas  ! 
Dimitri  will  never  finish  his  report. 

A  Maltese  sailor  gives  the  spy  the  whispered  story 
of  a  midnight  encounter. 

The  White  Countess,  with  lightning  mind,  takes 
her  desperate  resolve — to  see  Ahmed  ;  to  find  his 
heart ;  to  gain  news  of  Ghazee. 

And  how  ?     Any  pretext  will  do. 

Ah  !  He  must  surely  report  at  the  Russian  em 
bassy.  Penning  a  few  lines,  she  wraps  them  in  a 
handful  of  gold. 

"  Follow  this  man.  Give  him  this  paper  unob 
served,  and  return  to  me." 

The  Greek  is  gone. 

She  dare  not  go  to  the  Embassy,  she  may  be 
watched.  Ignatief's  people  might  repulse  her.  Life 
itself  may  be  her  dreadful  forfeit,  if  Mustapha  should 
suspect  treachery.  And  Russian  vengeance  ! 

Schamyl  would  never  come  to  her.  In  the  heart 
of  Istambol,  he  would  be  tracked.  He  would  fear 
an  ambush. 

As  she  ponders  (while  the  messenger  tells  her  of 
Dimitri's  death),  her  eye  sweeps  over  the  bridge. 
There,  below  the  barrier,  the  delicate  spars  and 
dainty  beauty  of  the  Seevoutch  attract  a  crowd 
on  the  Karakein  bridge. 

Why  not  there,  in  that  place  ?  Every  one  can  go 
there.  With  a  woman's  inspiration  she  asks  Ahmed 
to  meet  her  there  at  midnight. 

It  is  this  request  her  messenger  bears.  For  as 
she  looks  in  the  glass,  as  the  beauty  of  her  imaged 
self  smiles  back  on  her,  she  says  softly  : 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  67 

"  He  is  only  a  man.  He  will  tell  me  all.  I  will 
have  news  of  my  lover  from  the  one  man  who  can 
pardon  my  love — his  own  brother."  .  . 

Schamyl  is  on  deck  when  morning  breaks  over 
the  cypress-lined  shores  of  the  Bosporus,  and  the 
anchor  rattles  down  in  the  Golden  Horn.  It  is  a 
day  of  fate. 

The  Seevoutch  swings  quietly  in  the  silent  waters 
of  the  lovely  inlet. 

Schamyl  knows  well  these  classic  banks.  He 
dares  not  feast  his  eyes  from  the  deck  upon  the 
panorama  of  the  world's  most  splendid  harbor.  He 
must  wait  in  hiding.  Ahmed  grimly  smiles  as  he 
looks  at  the  slashed  tunic.  That  coward  stab  at 
Moscow  is  now  avenged. 

When  Dimitri  sank  u  with  the  bubbling  cry  of  the 
strong  swimmer  in  his  agony,"  he  carried  all  his 
dark  secrets  to  the  black  depths  of  the  Euxine. 

Schamyl  cannot  show  himself  until  Ignatiefs 
messenger  comes  to  call  him  to  the  soldier  dip 
lomat's  presence. 

The  Greek  may  have  telegraphed  from  Moscow, 
in  cipher,  to  the  Moslems  of  Constantinople. 

Ahmed  gazes  from  the  cabin  port-holes  at  the 
white-walled  houses  of  great  Scutari  ;  on  the  fra 
grant  gardens  of  Seraglio  Point ;  peerless  "  Istambol," 
the  crowned  city  of  the  Crescent  ;  Pera  and  Galatea 
to  the  north  cluster  thickly  ;  there  in  the  Russian 
embassy  the  master  mind  battles  for  the  Czar  and 
holds  sway  over  the  shifting  balances  of  peace  and 
war. 

Old  Byzantium  and  classic  Chalcedon  were  once 
great  cities  here,  before  the  mild-eyed  Nazarene 


68  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

smote  the  gods  of  Greece  with  that  pallid  finger,  at 
whose  touch  the  graceful  idols  of  the  classic  ages  fell. 

From  this  vantage-point  Grecian  civilization 
spread  in  centuries  past  to  the  shores  of  the  Black 
Sea. 

It  is  the  centre  of  the  old  world  of  creeds  and 
empires.  A  few  beggarly  hundreds  of  miles  em 
brace,  in  a  small  triangle,  the  birthplaces  of  Christ 
our  Lord  ;  of  the  giant  Machiavel  of  earth,  Moham 
med  ;  and  the  fiery  Othman,  who  from  Biledzik,  in 
Anatolia,  sallied  forth  to  found  an  empire  destined 
to  wrap  the  world  in  flame. 

Schamyl  knows  now  that  in  the  scenes  of  his 
youth,  where  Persia,  Turkey,  and  Russia  meet 
under  the  shadows  of  Ararat,  a  new  crusade  will 
soon  throw  the  sons  of  the  Cross  against  the  tur- 
baned  children  of  the  Crescent. 

As  the  Circassian  frets  (waiting  for  night),  the 
breeze  which  fans  his  brows  blows  over  the  mingled 
dust  of  Goth  and  Greek,  Saracen  and  Crusader.  It 
sweeps  over  the  graves  of  the  unnumbered  clans 
who  met  in  fight  beside  these  sculptured  shores  of 
Marmora. 

His  report  to  General  Ignatief  is  despatched  by  an 
orderly  ;  Schamyl  idly  watches  the  thousand  slender 
caiques  darting  rapidly  over  the  blue  waters. 

Up  and  down  the  old  bridge  and  its  fellow,  the 
Karakein  (joining  the  splendid  groves  of  Istambol 
to  modera  Pera),  a  ceaseless  throng  of  wayfarers 
presses  across  the  Golden  Horn. 

Schamyl  sees  the  line  of  carriages  bearing  the 
Moslem  aristocracy  on  softest  cushions,  while  the 
foot  passengers  envy  the  proud  Pacha  or  dainty 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  69 

harem  beauty  (gauze  veiled)  with  her  velvety  dark 
eyes. 

A  boat  flying  the  Russian  flag  approaches. 
Orders  at  last  ! 

The  deck  officer  (who  has  grasped  the  idea  that 
Schamyl  is  a  "  personage  ")  announces  the  drago 
man  of  the  Russian  Embassy. 

"Admit  him!"  briefly  commands  the  prince. 
Shawled  and  turbaned,  cimeter  at  belt,  silver- 
headed  staff  in  hand,  the  important  official  enters. 

He  bows  low,  and  presents  a  letter  silently. 
Ahmed  tears  it  open. 

It  is  a  note  from  Count  Ignatief,  stating  that  the 
steam  launch  of  the  Embassy  will  be  alongside,  at 
eight  o'clock  in  the  evening,  with  a  trusted  officer 
to  escort  him  to  the  count's  residence. 

"  Say  to  his  Excellency,  I  await  the  honor  of  his 
reception,  and  shall  be  ready." 

(The  note  states  that  a  verbal  answer  only  is 
required.) 

Schamyl  raises  his  eyes  to  the  dragoman,  who  is 
scanning  his  features  curiously. 

He  cries,  "  What  !  Tarnaieff  ?  " 

"The  same,  your  Highness!"  He  grasps  the 
hand  of  Prince  Schamyl  eagerly.  A  comrade  of 
Circassia. 

"  Sit  down,  my  old  friend.  How  do  you  come  to 
masquerade  in  this  costume?  " 

Tarnaieff  accepts  the  cigars  and  wines  offered  by 
the  prince.  Noblesse  oblige. 

"  When  we  finished  our  hunt  in  the  Caucasus, 
Prince,  you  returned  to  St.  Petersburg,  /  made  a 
thorough  reconnaissance  of  the  Caucasus. 


70  PRINCE    SCHAMYL  S   WOOING. 

"  I  wished  to  know  all  our  frontier  passes.  Gen 
eral  Melikoff  detached  me  from  my  regiment  (on 
secret  service)  for  a  year. 

"  A  Circassian  Guardsman  may  not  make  a  good 
dragoman ;  but  I  have  been  at  Erzeroum,  with 
our  consul  in  that  station,  for  six  months  or  more." 

Schamyl  eyes  his  comrade  curiously.  Tarnaieff 
is  a  dashing  Armenian. 

Just  the  dare-devil  to  carry  out  Loris  MelikofTs 
secret  plans. 

"  Now,  Tarnaieff,  what  was  your  real  duty  at 
Erzeroum?"  queries  Ahmed. 

Schamyl  knows  ambition  goads  on  Loris  Melikoff. 
The  keen  Armenian  general  has  sworn  that  he  will 
be  governor-general  of  the  Trans-Caucasus,  and 
some  day  lead  an  army  over  the  Arpa  Tchai. 

His  hawk  eye  catches  the  rising  war-cloud. 

Melikoff  swears  the  White  Czar  shall  have  the 
quadrilateral  forts — Batoum,  Ardahan,  Kars,  and 
Erzeroum  !  Visions  of  a  royal  province  at  his  feet ; 
an  army  under  his  baton  ;  and — and  why  may  he 
not  be  the  Emperor's  chief  aide-de-camp? 

It  is  an  epoch  of  many  rising  stars.  Skobeleff's 
red  planet  of  war  gleams  in  right  ascension. 

Melikoff  knows  the  Czar  must  have  the  road  to 
Persia  and  the  East. 

For  the  Russian  octopus  throws  out  its  feelers 
toward  Merv,  Samarcand,  the  Indian  frontier,  the 
Chinese  border,  the  shores  of  the  Black  and  Cas 
pian. 

Soon  a  steel  line  will  creep  from  the  Urals 
toward  Irkutsk  and  the  Trans-Baikal.  Russia  in 
Europe  will  be  joined  to  the  Amoor  regions,  and 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  71 

Vladivostock,  the  gate  of  the  East,  be  bound  to  the 
heart  of  Muscovy  with  magic  rails. 

Court,  cabinet,  and  camp  are  thrilled  with  this 
well-judged  plan,  to  fight  Turkey  on  the  Danube  ; 
but  Russia  must  take  and  hold  Asia  Minor,  and  the 
gates  of  India. 

This  campaign  talk  is  a  lengthy  one. 


"  Prince  Schamyl,"  slowly  replies  Tarnaieff,  "  I 
can  trust  the  Lord  of  the  Caucasus.  I  have  made 
sketches  of  all  the  Turkish  works  at  Ardahan,  Bay- 
azid,  Kars,  and  Erzeroum.  Melikoff  is  ready  to 
cross  the  frontier ! 

"  Of  course,  you  know,  Ignatief  will  coldly  juggle 
till  we  are  ready.  As  soon  as  our  troops  can  move, 
we  will  fight. 

"  The  conference  is,  even  now,  a  failure." 

"  How  did  you  come  here,  Tarnaieff  ?  "  asks  the 
prince,  his  eyes  half  closed.  The  panorama  of  a 
long  war  in  the  valleys  of  the  Araxes  and  the  Kara 
passes  before  his  eyes. 

"  You  knew  Colonel  Kondukoff  ? "  Tarnaieff 
rejoins. 

"  Very  well !  "  sententiously  replies  Schamyl. 

"  He  was  a  valuable  officer,  from  his  knowledge  of 
every  inch  of  ground  from  Batoum  to  Sinope,  from 
Trebizond  to  the  Caspian." 

"  Well !  "  interrupts  Schamyl. 

"  He  has  deserted  us  and  joined  the  Turks,  under 
the  name  of  Moussa  Pacha ;  he  is  raising  a  force  of  ren 
egade  Circassians  and  Kurds  to  ravage  the  border  !  " 

"  The  black-hearted  scoundrel,"  cries  Schamyl. 

Tarnaieff  resumes  : 


72  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

"General  Melikoff  wants  him  traced  up,  and 
especially  those  flocking  to  him.  I  was  sent  here 
to  act  under  Ignatiefs  orders;  of  course,  as  soon  as 
war  is  declared,  I  hope  to  rejoin  Melikoffs  staff. 
He  fears  internal  trouble  in  Circassia." 

"Why?"  anxiously  queries  Schamyl. 

"  Prince  "  (the  dragoman  lowers  his  voice),  "  we 
have  lost  fifteen  officers  in  a  month,  by  desertion  ! 
They  have  slipped  (one  by  one)  over  the  borders  to 
the  Turks.  There  is  some  more  potent  charm  than 
this  thick-headed  Kondukoff  at  work.  He  is,  thank 
God,  so  stupid,  he  cannot  harm  us  much  in  the  field. 
If  we  catch  him,  we  will  hang  him  in  his  regimental 
square,  the  false  dog  !  " 

Schamyl's  cheeks  are  burning  red.  This  secret 
devil  is  "  Ghazee  "  his  brother. 

Does  Ignatief  know  ?     Does  Tarnaieff  suspect  ? 

Tarnaieff  rises. 

"I  must  go  now,  Prince!  I  will  come  with  the 
launch  and  a  dozen  trusty  men  here  to-night.  By 
the  way,  Count  Ignatief  has  one  valuable  hint  as 
to  the  insurrection  in  our  rear." 

Schamyl  starts. 

"  You  remember  Suleiman  Effendi,  our  gallant- 
hunting  companion  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes !  "  cries  Schamyl,  impatiently. 

"  He  was  sent  on  to  Petersburg  as  military  attache. 
He  has  returned." 

Schamyl  nods. 

"  He  is  to  have  a  frontier  brigade,  under  the  title 
of  '  Mehemed  Pacha/  He  is  a  gallant  fellow  and  a 
good  soldier!  " 

"  Certainly,"  Schamyl  interjects. 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  73 

"General  Ignatief  tells  me  that  Suleiman  is  to 
move  along  and  try  our  lines,  coopeVating  with 
those  cut-throat  bands  under  Moussa  Pacha  the 
renegade.  Their  object  is  to  keep  up  a  disaffection 
among  the  Abkhasians  and  Circassians  in  our  rear. 

"When  I  fully  understand  General  Ignatief's 
ideas,  I  am  to  stay  to  the  last :  then  take  the  field 
against  these  spies  and  rebels." 

Tarnaieff  salutes  ;  he  turns  to  go.  "  See  here, 
Tarnaieff,"  slowly  says  Ahmed,  "  I  want  to  have  a 
private  hour  with  you  after  I  have  done  with 
General  Ignatief.  I  think  I  may  be  sent  away  sud 
denly.  I  rely  on  you  for  a  personal  service." 

"  With  all  my  heart,"  answers  the  dragoman, 
whose  twelve  sturdy  rowers  are  soon  bending  to 
their  oars,  throwing  high  the  diamond  sparkles  of 
the  Golden  Horn. 

Prince  Ahmed  paces  his  cabin  rooms  like  a  caged 
tiger,  as  the  long  afternoon  wears  away.  Shall  he 
tell  Count  Ignatief  all  he  knows  and  fears  ? 

In  the  throng  pouring  over  the  bridges  are  eager 
eyes  watching  the  dainty  Seevoutch. 

Russian  adroitness  may  meet  its  match  in  a  chain 
linking  Mustapha  the  diplomat,  Ghazee  his  devilish 
brother,  and  the  "  White  Countess,"  to  Kondukoff 
and  the  warlike  Suleiman. 

Ahmed  recognizes  in  this  desertion  the  work  of 
Ghazee.  Present  gold,  attractive  promises  of  rank, 
and  the  most  subtle  flattery  have  carried  men  who 
know  too  much  into  the  ranks  of  the  Sultan. 

"  Is  Ghazee  in  Constantinople,  or  some  other 
hostile  conspirator  on  his  own  track  ?  " 

When  the  stars  swing  up  from  the  far   eastern 


74  PRINCE   SCHAMYL  S   WOOING. 

land  of  the  fire  worshippers,  Schamyl  throws  a  heavy 
boat  cloak*  around  himself,  as  the  whistle  of  the 
steam  launch  sounds  alongside.  His  revolver  is 
ready  in  his  pocket.  He  slings  his  trusty  Circassian 
dagger  at  his  tunic  belt.  It  is  the  "sine  qua  non." 

It  makes  no  noise.  Swinging  down  the  com 
panion  way,  young  Schamyl  goes  to  the  presence  of 
the  great  soldier  ambassador. 

Tarnaieff  bows  in  silence  as  the  swift  launch 
steams  to  the  shore.  In  five  minutes  the  Pera 
boat  landing  is  reached.  "  Caesar  has  burned  his 
ships." 

Lightly  jumping  ashore  at  the  foot  of  Karakein 
bridge,  Ahmed  enters  a  waiting  carriage. 

Tarnaieff  lingers  to  bid  the  launch  await  his 
return.  He  whispers  to  Ahmed  as  the  horses 
spring  away :  "  We  can  take  a  little  run  in  the 
launch  later,  and  be  entirely  alone." 

Up  the  street,  where  forgotten  armies  have  trod 
den  for  centuries  past,  and  defiled  by  the  famous 
cross-roads,  the  carriage  dashes.  It  stops  at  the 
Russian  Embassy,  opposite  the  Hotel  d'Angleterre. 
Here,  at  the  Municipality  house,  Russia,  Turkey, 
and  England  meet,  in  social  opposition,  but  tied  by 
fate  in  a  knot  only  to  be  cut  by  the  sword. 

The  Embassy  windows  are  darkened.  Tarnaieff 
bids  Prince  Ahmed  follow  him.  Through  a  side 
door  the  prince  enters  that  superb  residence,  which 
is  Russia,  though  its  walls  are  in  Turkey. 

Here  the  hatching  of  plots,  the  weaving  of 
snares,  the  daily  diplomatic  tangle,  is  guided  by  the 
ablest  dissimulator  of  the  century,  Nicolas  Ignatief. 

A  grave-faced  lackey  bows   low.      He   conducts 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  75 

Schamyl  to  the  private  study  of  the  ambassador. 
Opening  the  door  he  announces,  "  Prince  Ahmed 
Schamyl." 

The  young  soldier  enters.  He  bends  his  stately 
head  as  he  sees,  beside  the  man  of  the  hour,  his 
gracious  and  beautiful  wife. 

With  consummate  courtesy,  General  Ignatief 
presents  Prince  Ahmed  to  the  delicate  lady,  who 
lost  no  prestige  as  a  Galitzin  heiress  when  she 
gave  her  hand  in  wedlock  to  Count  Nicolas 
Ignatief. 

Serene,  blonde  in  beauty,  with  the  exquisite 
manners  of  "  a  duchess,"  Madame  la  Comtesse 
Ignatief  places  the  young  man  instantly  at  his 
ease. 

Ahmed  has  not  forgotten  his  graceful  early 
lessons  of  the  Page  School.  While  he  presents  his 
personal  homage  to  the  distinguished  chatelaine,  he 
studies  the  great  man  before  him. 

In  the  uniform  of  a  general,  with  the  aiguillettes 
and  crown-bearing  epaulettes  of  an  imperial  aide- 
de-camp,  Ignatief  shows  the  thorough  soldier  in  his 
well-set  frame  and  perfect  self-control. 

A  high  forehead,  crowned  with  thick,  long  black 
locks,  with  piercing,  deep  dark  eyes ;  a  drooping, 
pointed  Tartar  mustache,  and  a  smooth  shaven  face 
which  shows  the  professional  smile  of  the  arch- 
Jesuit  or  the  duellist  "  en  garde" — Ignatief  is  a 
man  of  strange  appearance. 

His  ready,  mobile  smile  can  stiffen  into  the  set 
decision  of  a  man  who  would  send  battalions  calmly 
into  a  hell  of  fire,  or  charm  with  its  winning  frank 
ness. 


76  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

When  his  roving,  bold  black  eyes  have  finished  a 
survey  of  the  youthful  warrior,  Madame  Ignatief 
rises. 

Schamyl  springs  to  the  door.  He  is  rewarded 
with  a  smile  which  is  doubly  beautiful  from  its  rare 
ness.  It  is  the  alpenglow. 

The  Countess  Ignatief's  smiles  are  precious  even 
in  Russia,  that  land  of  most  bewitching  ladies. 

Seating  himself  at  a  nod,  Prince  Ahmed  awaits 
the  general's  pleasure. 

"  Where  is  your  brother?"  the  ambassador  asks, 
as  sharply  as  a  rifle  shot. 

"  I  cannot  tell  you,  general,"  Ahmed  frankly 
answers.  He  is  paralyzed  at  this  thrust. 

Ignatief  leans  back  in  his  chair.  His  eyes  are 
half  closed.  .  .  . 

"  Tell  me  of  his  departure,  Prince,"  he  continues 
in  an  ordinary  tone. 

Schamyl  briefly  reports  the  facts  as  to  Ghazee's 
disappearance. 

"You  have  had  no  communication  with  him?" 

"  None  at  all,"  rejoins  Ahmed,  proudly. 

"Tell  me  of  your  trip!"  Ignatief  is  studying 
the  ceiling  intently. 

Schamyl  describes  his  voyage.  He  tells  of  the 
attack  at  Moscow,  the  weird  scene  on  the  deck  of 
the  Seevoutch. 

His  brief  report  is  soon  over.     "  Finit  opus  /" 

Ignatief  muses. 

"  It  is  as  I  feared.  They  know  of  your  secret 
voyage.  Nothing  is  sacred  in  St.  Petersburg. 
There  are  spies  every  where  .  .  .  even  here." 

The  count  is  talking  to  himself.     He  rouses. 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  77 

"  Prince  Schamyl,  I  intended  to  keep  you  here 
until  I  could  explain  the  grave  duties  which  will  be 
intrusted  to  you.  I  do  not  wish  to  pain  you.  The 
influence  of  your  brother  'Ghazee'  may  be  annoy 
ing  to  us  in  Asia  Minor.  I  see  he  has  already 
tried  to  have  you  assassinated.  Now  I  shall  send 
you  at  once  to  Kertsch,  on  the  Seevoutck. 

"  She  will  sail  at  daylight.  Go  from  there  by  rail 
to  Vladikaukas  and  join  General  Melikoff  at  Tiflis. 

"  I  will  send  Tarnaieff  over  with  full  details  when 
I  leave  here.  An  imperial  courier  can  come  across 
before  the  war. 

"  I  have  prepared  a  despatch,  which  I  give  you 
now.  It  is  in  a  cipher  which  Loris  Melikoff  alone 
knows." 

General  Ignatief  hands  Ahmed  a  sealed  packet, 
addressed  officially  to  Count  Loris  Melikoff. 

Schamyl  bows  as  he  receives  it.     A  trust f. 

"  My  young  friend  "  (calmly  continues  Ignatief), 
"  I  know  your  mystic  land.  When  I  left  Moscow  and 
put  my  first  uniform  on,  I  served  in  desperate 
mountain  warfare  against  your  great  father. 

"  I  saw  Sultan  Schamyl  come  down  from  his  great 
eyrie  at  Gunib,  leading  you  by  the  hand,  when  he 
surrendered  to  Prince  Baryatinsky, 

"  Stirring  days,"  muses  Ignatief.  "  They  made 
Baryatinsky  a  prince  and  field  marshal,  and  me—~& 
soldier. 

"  Thirty  years'  warfare.  Two  hundred  thousand 
lives  were  laid  down  to  subdue  your  warlike  father 
and  to  gain  us  the  silver-crested  line  of  the  Caucasus. 

"  When  '  Jamal  Eddin,'  your  brother  (now  long 
dead),  was  delivered  up  by  your  noble  father,  in  a 


78  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

truce,  two  great  armies  in  array  watched  over  the 
scene. 

"  You  see  what  we  gave  in  blood  and  toilsome 
years  to  get  the  Caucasus  ?  " 

Ahmed  bows.  His  eyes  are  roving  over  the  great 
study,  with  its  myriad  books,  its  piles  of  maps,  its 
pyramids  of  labored  papers.  The  count  is  a  man  of 
the  pen  as  well  as  the  sword,  a  very  hard  fighter 
and  a  much  harder  student. 

"  Prince,"  continues  Ignatief,  "  your  royal  father 
kept  his  word  when  he  surrendered  to  us.  You 
know  the  late  Emperor  was  princely  in  his  undefiled 
honor.  It  rests  with  you  alone  to  keep  the  family 
name  white  ! 

"  As  soon  as  I  have  made  a  tour  of  the  European 
capitals,  I  shall  rejoin  the  Emperor  at  Kischereff. 
Prince  Dolgourouki  and  myself  will  attend  him  to 
the  field  as  special  aides." 

Schamyl's  eyes  sparkle.  The  eagle  of  the  Cau 
casus  scents  human  blood  ! 

"  These  immovable  Turks  will  refuse  all  wise 
concessions.  Gortschakoff  will  then  define  our  posi 
tion  in  a  logical  circular  letter  to  the  powers.  We 
will  instantly  attack  the  Turk." 

Ignatief  rests.  His  glittering  eyes  are  fixed  on 
the  young  soldier. 

"  The  Turks  are  lost  in  their  own  quarrels.  We 
incite  tnese  disturbances,  for  we  must  have  Asia 
Minor  as  far  as  the  Euphrates!  You  will' find  the 
Grand  Duke  Nicholas  at  Tiflis  when  you  arrive. 
Among  the  leading  generals  are  our  very  best  fron 
tier  soldiers — Melikoff,  Heimann,Lazareff,  Komaroff, 
Count  Grabbe,  and  TergukassofT.  But  it  rests  alone 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  79 

with  you  to  counteract  your  mad  brother  Ghazee's 
influence.  To  us  he  is  merely  a  deserter.  To  you, 
a  deadly  enemy — a  would-be  assassin  ! 

"  The  Emperor  looks  to  you,  loyal  and  true,  to 
combat  the  schemes  of  '  Ghazee,'  Kondukoff, 
Mehemed  Pacha,  and  that  black-hearted  Kurd  '  Is- 
mail  Pacha'  the  Vali  of  Erzeroum. 

"  They  will  spread  treason  and  insurrection 
silently  in  our  rear." 

"  Do  you  anticipate  hostile  foreign  influence, 
General  ?  "  Ahmed  queries. 

"  Hardly/'  replies  Ignatief. '  "  France  and  England 
helped  your  father  in  his  last  struggling  years. 
Only  a  few  resolute  men  like  Captain  Burnaby, 
Baker  Pacha,  Hobart  Pacha,  and  Sir  Arnold  Kem- 
ball  are  trying  to  open  the  eyes  of  the  English  !-— 
Fat-witted  and  too  rich  ! 

"  They  are  too  slow,  these  dogged  islanders," 
sneers  the  count. 

He  rises.  Stepping  to  an  ebony  escritoire,  he 
hands  to  Prince  Ahmed  a  magnificent  Tcherkess 
dagger.  "  Prince,"  the  old  ambassador  says,  "  your 
warrior  father  gave  me  this  blade  on  the  sad  day  of 
Gunib.  Take  it  back.  You  go  to  the  storied  land 
of  guerilla  war,  to  impending  death,  to  the  land  of 
the  old  Vendetta,  to  the  land  of  the  mystic  fire 
worshipper,  the  land  of  savage  witchery. 

"  May  your  fate  be  fortunate !  I  am  authorized 
by  the  Emperor  to  say  that  he  trusts  you  to  the 
very  death  !  Beware  of  sly  Moslem  wiles — shun  the 
lurking  assassin  !  If  you  are  in  sudden  danger,  de 
stroy  your  despatches.  Let  them  not  leave  your 
person  for  a  moment  ! 


8o  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

"  At  Kertsch  you  can  take  a  nominal  guard — a 
picked  escort. 

"  Now,  Prince,  beware  of  your  wily  brother ! 
YOUR  life  is  valuable  to  the  Czar,  for  you  alone 
shall  lead  the  loyal  Circassians  in  this  war! " 

Ignatief  concludes.     It  is  a  gracious  conge". 

Prince  Schamyl  presses  the  silver-shafted  dagger 
to  his  lips. 

"  I  swear  fealty,  to  the  death,  on  this  sacred  em 
blem  !  The  Czar  holds  Schamyl's  honor  !  " 

The  stern  general's  face  softens.  He  rings  a  sil 
ver  bell. 

A  servant  bears  in  the  never-absent  wine  of  the 
Muscovite.  Ahmed's  lips  barely  touch  the  crystal 
glass.  As  the  general  drinks  he  pledges,  with  a 
smile,  to  Schamyl : 

"  To  our  next  meeting  in  Constantinople  in  the 
hour  of  victory  !  To  the  cross  on  St.  Sophia !  " 

A  heavy  boom  shakes  the  casements.  Prince 
Schamyl  springs  to  the  window.  There,  a  few 
cable  lengths  away,  swings  on  the  sea  a  huge  black 
sea  monster. 

Another  gun  !     It  is  the  stern  voice  of  England. 

"  What  is  that,  General  ?  "  the  Circassian  queries 
with  anxiety. 

Ignatief's  voice  shakes  slightly. 

"  //  is  the  English  despatch  boat  sahiting  the  Sul 
tan  !  This  voice  of  the  starlit  night  is  an  omen  of 
evil  import  to  the  White  Czar." 

England's  rough  barkers  growling  a  hoarse  trib 
ute  to  the  crescent  flag  of  the  Moslem  ! 

Schamyl  springs  lightly  down  the  marble  stairs, 
his  nerves  tingling  with  the  anti-climax.  The  great 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  81 

steel  cannon  of  the  queen  of  the  sea  disputed  boldly 
the  ambassador's  prophecy  over  the  wine.  "  No 
thoroughfare  yet." 

Passing  out,  the  carriage  lights  meet  his  eyes. 
With  foot  on  the  step  the  footman  salutes  and  says : 
"  Major  Tarnaieff  will  join  you  instantly,  Prince." 
As  the  servant  speeds  to  call  his  companion  Schamyl 
lights  his  cigarette.  A  swift-footed  passer-by  thrusts 
a  paper  into  his  open  hand,  and  rapidly  turns  the 
corner  of  the  Embassy. 

Ahmed  springs  like  a  deer  to  the  dark  crossing. 
Many  mingled  forms,  in  all  costumes  of  the  day,  are 
pressing  toward  the  bridges  in  a  huddle.  The  quest 
is  useless. 

Tarnaieff  joins  him  as  he  endeavors  to  scan  the 
mysterious  billet.  A  second  thought  :  What  hos 
tile  eyes  may  now  be  fixed  on  him  ?  He  enters  the 
coupe. 

Tarnaieff  closes  the  door  sharply.  In  a  few  min 
utes  the  two  friends  are  at  the  landing.  The  panting 
horses  rest. 

Muffled  up  well,  Ahmed  descends  to  the  cabin  of 
the  launch.  The  disguised  dragoman  is  about  to 
give  the  signal  for  leaving  the  strand. 

"  Wait !  "  Ahmed  cries.  "  Look  here,  Tarnaieff. 
The  billet  of  the  unknown  is  simple  enough.  '  Meet 
me  alone  at  midnight,  in  the  middle  of  the  Kara- 
kein  bridge.  The  life  of  the  Rose  of  Tiflis  is  in 
your  hands.'  " 

"  A  trap  !  "  Tarnaieff  snarls.  "  An  enemy's  de 
vice  ! " 

Schamyl's  eyes  are  fixed  upon  the  signature — 
"  Nadya  Vronsky." 


82  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

Ahmed  ponders.  The  "  White  Countess  "  here. 
Mustapha's  tool.  Ghazee's  fair  devotee. 

Then  Ghazee  himself  is  not  far  off. 

Tarnaieff  watches  the  young  soldier.  "  You  are 
not  mad  enough,  Prince,  to  fall  into  this  snare  ?  " 

Schamyl  hears  him  not.  He  gazes  on  the  lonely 
bridge  intently.  Launches  and  caiques  innumerable 
crowd  the  glassy  Golden  Horn.  His  plan  is  instantly 
made. 

"  To  the  ship  !  "  he  commands. 

The  little  steamer  throbs  to  the  twisting  screw. 
On  the  passage  Tarnaieff  cries  : 

"  It  would  be  madness.  I  have  orders  for  the 
vessel  to  leave  an  hour  before  daybreak  for  Kertsch 
—under  your  directions.  The  ship's  company  will 
be  inspected,  the  boat  searched  for  intruders.  I  am 
to  go  to  Kertsch  with  you  and  report  back  your 
departure — by  special  train — to  Tiflis." 

Ahmed  answers  briefly.  His  mind  is  dwelling  on 
the  picture  of  the  Diana-like  Maritza.  Those  love- 
lit  eyes  shine  on  him  once  again.  The  soldier's 
blood  is  throbbing  in  every  pulse  as  he  recalls  those 
drooping  lashes,  when  she  simply  said,  at  their 
parting  : 

"  Mon  cher  Prince.     Au  revoir  a  Tiflis  !  " 

Fairest  of  the  maids  in  the  land  of  Prometheus  and 
Cadmus  !  The  armed  men  are  now  springing  up 
around  her. 

Born  on  those  classic  shores,  where,  on  a  lovely 
island  of  the  coast,  Aurora  and  her  dazzling  train 
swept  along  in  the  dance  of  the  Hours,  in  the  old 
golden  days — a  daughter  of  the  fabled  Amazons — 
scion  of  the  great  prophetess  "  Thoulme,"  mistress 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  83 

of  all  weird  mystery — Maritza  de  Deshkalin  is  now 
the  reigning  queen  of  his  lawful  patrimony  in  the 
Caucasus. 

Her  innocent  life  in  danger !  Is  it  a  bold  inven 
tion  of  the  Vronsky  ?  Who  knows  ? 

Can  he  meet  a  woman  whom  it  were  madness  to 
trust  ?  His  honor !  His  oath  on  his  father's  dagger 
fresh  on  his  lips.  Ahmed's  love  combats  his  duty. 

No  soft  daughter  of  luxury  is  the  beauteous 
Georgian.  Spirited  and  brave  is  she — a  scion  of 
that  noble  race  which  held  the  defiles  of  the  Cau 
casus  against  the  invincible  Alexander. 

Pompey's  legions  recoiled  before  her  warrior  fore 
fathers.  Attila,  Tamerlane,  and  Genghis  Khan 
swerved  aside  from  the  fierce  mountaineers,  who 
battled  to  the  death  under  the  shining  crests  of 
Kazbek  and  Ararat. 

The  haughty  Persian  and  even  the  merciless  Turk 
failed  to  subdue  her  martial  ancestors. 

Platoff's  warning  flashes  to  his  mind.  Is  it  a  plot 
of  the  leaden-eyed  Ghazee? 

His  head  says,  No  !  His  heart  cries,  Yes  !  Love  is 
prophetic. 

For  the  sweet  Rose  of  Tiflis,  he  will  keep  the 
dangerous  midnight  tryst. 

Schamyl  sees  the  glittering  stars  hanging  high 
over  the  eastern  skies,  where  the  giant  slopes  of  the 
Caucasus  buttress  the  Czar's  blood-bought  domains. 

These  sparkling  lights  of  night  speak  to  him  of 
Maritza,  only  Maritza. 

Tarnaieff  raves  when  Schamyl  tells  him  his  de 
cision. 

"  I  will  take  a  boat  with  a  dozen  well-armed  men, 


84  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

and  a  couple  of  rope  ladders.  We  will  row  to  the 
Seraglio  Point.  When  we  have  gone  well  above  the 
bridge,  we  will  then  drift  down.  You  and  I  can  go 
along  the  bridge.  You  follow  me,  a  few  hundred 
feet  away.  If  there  is  treachery,  I  will  fire  my 
pistol.  The  men  will  be  at  hand.  We  can  drop 
into  the  boat  and  return  to  the  vessel." 

"  Are  you  mad,  Schamyl  ?  "  Tarnaieff  cries.  "  I 
will  not  go  with  you,  Prince.  What  can  you  say  to 
your  commander  ?  " 

Circassian  blood  brooks  no  checking.  Schamyl 
says,  in  a  chilling  tone  : 

"  All  right,  Tarnaieff,  I'll  go  alone.  You  can  wait 
here  at  the  ship." 

His  friend  bounds  to  his  feet.  Ahmed's  words 
cut  him  like  a  whip-lash. 

"  Schamyl,  I  will  not  abandon  you.  I  am  yours 
to  the  death.  But  you  are  taking  a  fearful  risk,  my 
old  comrade." 

"  We  will  take  the  risks  together,  then,  Tarnaieff," 
Ahmed  says  affectionately,  for  his  loyal  friend's 
prudence  alone  held  him  back. 

The  preparations  for  the  expedition  are  soon 
made.  Schamyl's  despatches  remain  on  board. 
Hassan  insists  on  tumbling  into  the  boat.  He 
scents  danger. 

At  eleven  the  low  cutter  glides  away  to  the 
gardens  of  Seraglio  Point. 

Even  at  this  late  hour,  boats  are  darting  over  the 
waters.  Twinkling  lights  on  the  anchored  ships  are 
mirrored  with  the  trembling  stars. 

Under  the  bows  of  the  English  despatch  boat,  the 
armed  boat  speeds  toward  those  bowers,  whence 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  85 

dome  and  minaret,  spire  and  arcade,  rise  faintly 
lined  against  the  blue  vault. 

From  the  thickets,  the  perfumed  breeze  wafts  the 
thrilling  plaint  of  the  nightingale. 

Schamyl  bears  at  his  waist  his  father's  dagger ;  a 
belt  under  his  cloak  also  carries  his  army  revolver. 

To  his  ardent  and  impulsive  soul,  the  plash  of 
the  oars,  the  birds'  song,  the  sighing  of  the  winds, 
repeat  only  that  magic  word — "  Maritza." 

Tarnaieff,  in  the  hour  of  waiting,  has  told  him  all 
the  diplomatic  secrets  of  the  day.  They  are  to  be 
companions  in  the  coming  war,  until  perhaps  a 
shell,  perchance  a  Turkish  cimeter,  may  divorce 
them  forever.  Both  are  food  for  Turkish  powder. 

Hassan  eyes  his  master  like  a  wolf  hound.  He  is 
once  more  "  en  Turque,"  his  normal  guise. 

Strong  arms  propel  them  far  up  the  stream,  then 
drifting  slowly  along  the  strand,  after  a  few  whis 
pered  words,  Schamyl  springs  ashore.  Hassan 
gravely  breasts  the  throng  and  wends  sullenly 
along  the  bridge  to  his  post,  which  is  to  be  a  hun 
dred  yards  beyond  the  middle  of  the  bridge.  He  is 
to  conceal  himself,  and  keep  guard. 

Schamyl  loiters  along,  scanning  the  passers-by. 
He  hears  the  click  of  the  oars,  as  the  boat  speeds 
along,  to  station  itself  under  the  central  span,  in 
hiding. 

Tarnaieff,  on  the  other  walk,  lingers  and  smokes 
his  cigar.  He  follows  the  tall  form  of  the  prince. 

Ahmed's  every  faculty  is  strained.  Casting  his 
eyes  uneasily  around,  he  sees  behind  him  the  great 
dome  of  St.  Sophia  hovering  between  heaven  and 
earth.  Will  the  Greek  cross  rise  there  ever? 


86  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

The  thousand  lights  on  the  three  varied  shores 
twinkle  lazily.  Down  the  Bosporus,  moving  red 
and  green  lanterns  show  the  track  of  swift  packets. 

Reaching  the  middle  of  the  bridge,  it  lacks  but 
five  minutes  of  twelve.  The  belated  stragglers  are 
few.  Loosening  his  revolver,  with  his  belt-dagger 
in  his  left  hand,  Ahmed  stands  on  the  middle  of 
the  roadway.  His  heart  is  beating  fast.  Nothing 
in  sight.  No  sound  save  the  indistinct  murmurs  of 
the  shores,  where  a  million  wait  for  the  coming  day. 
It  is  rash  to  be  here.  Hark !  Clear  and  sweet, 
from  the  anchored  ships  the  sound  of  eight  bells 
strikes  his  ear.  The  boom  of  a  distant  heavy  bell 
intones  midnight.  Where  is  Nadya  ? 

Is  it  the  roll  of  a  vehicle  ?  Yes  !  Swiftly,  from 
the  Istambol  bank,  a  double  carriage  approaches. 

Tarnaieff,  lurking  along  the  eastern  rail  of  the 
bridge,  stands  motionless. 

The  carriage  soon  halts.  Some  one  is  coming. 
Ahmed's  heart  is  beating  high.  It  is  surely  a 
woman.  At  a  distance  of  ten  paces  a  servant 
follows. 

Schamyl  scorns  to  show  suspicion.  As  the 
woman  approaches,  he  advances  on  guard.  A 
white  gauze  veil  covers  the  unknown  features.  She 
need  not  speak.  The  springy  stride,  the  dainty 
bearing,  are  those  of  a  European.  No  dumpy,  over 
fed  harem  beauty — this  sombre  witch  of  the  night, 
whose  white  veil  gleams  like  silver. 

She  pauses;  with  a  quick  movement  of  her  arm, 
the  attendant  halts. 

"  Major  Schamyl?"  Her  voice  is  broken  and 
agitated. 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  87 

"  At  your  service,  madame,"  calmly  replies  the 
prince.  His  keen  eyes  search  her  face. 

She  drops  the  gauze  scarf  a  moment. 

"  Madame  la  Comtesse  Vronsky  ?  "  he  bows  low. 
"  Pray  be  brief,  madame.  You  sent  for  me  ?  " 

"  I  did.  Your  brother  plans  the  capture,  ruin,  or 
death  of  Maritza  de  Deshkalin  !  Look  to  her ! 
His  agents  are  everywhere.  Tiflis  is  swarming  with 
spies.  Georgia  is  filled  with  his  minions.  I  care 
not  for  this  war  of  tyrants  !  But  I  know  his  dark 
purpose.  The  would-be  Pacha  of  Georgia  craves 
the  Rose  of  Tiflis  for  his  harem  queen.  If  Ghazee 
leads  the  Turks  to  the  heart  of  Georgia,  she  is  lost. 
Let  her  leave  Tiflis.  She  is  only  safe  in  Petersburg. 
Watch  over  her!  " 

"Madame,  your  motive?"  Ahmed  coldly  mur 
murs.  He  muses.  He  is  off  his  guard. 

She  throws  aside  her  veil,  and  clasps  her  bosom 
with  her  nervous  hands,  flashing  with  gems. 

"  I  have  stolen  away,  at  the  risk  of  my  life,  to  tell 
you  this.  Gold  unlocks  even  the  guarded  gates  of 
Istambol !  The  road  which  leads  him  to  her,  takes 
him  far  from  me.  I  love  Ghazee !  For  God's  sake, 
tell  me  where  he  is  !  "  She  is  sobbing  now. 

She  lifts  her  head — to  cry:  "Save  yourself!" 
With  a  wild  scream,  Nadya  Vronsky  falls  senseless 
at  Schamyl's  feet.  He  turns  his  head.  Two  writh 
ing,  struggling  forms  are  behind  him.  One  breaks 
away  before  he  dare  fire,  and  flees  wildly  up  the 
bridge.  He  drops  his  revolver  on  its  cord  sling. 
Who  is  it  lying  there  prone  ? 

Ahmed  is  bending  over  old  Hassan,  whose  heavy 
breathing  proves  his  suffering. 


88  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

Ah!  Warm  blood  ?  Yes!  From  his  side  a  stream 
trickles  over  Ahmed's  fingers. 

Tarnaieff  has  now  raised  the  woman.  The  silent 
attendant  springs  to  his  side.  While  they  seek  to 
lift  the  fair  burden  and  bear  it  to  the  carriage,  the 
clatter  of  horses'  feet  dies  away  along  the  cause 
way. 

Ahmed  need  not  blow  his  boatswain's  whistle,  a 
half  dozen  stalwart  fellows  clamber  over  the  low 
bridge  parapet.  That  woman's  scream  has  brought 
the  sailors  up. 

The  coxswain  calls  for  a  coil  of  rope.  Old  Hassan 
is  lowered  into  the  cutter. 

Schamyl's  presence  of  mind  returns. 

"  Leave  four  men  here  !  Row  to  the  ship  !  Have 
the  surgeon  instantly  dress  this  man's  wounds ! 
Return  at  once  to  the  foot  of  the  bridge  where  we 
landed!  Give  way  strong  !  "-—he  cries.  The  boat 
is  already  sweeping  toward  the  gunboat. 

Side  by  side  with  Tarnaieff,  Schamyl,  aided  by  the 
four  men,  bears  Nadya  Vronsky  to  the  carriage. 
There  is  something  clutched  in  his  hand  which  poor 
Hassan  grasped  in  his  stiffened  fingers.  Who  was 
the  assassin  ? 

While  Tarnaieff  pours  a  little  brandy  from  his 
flask  down  the  fainting  woman's  throat,  Schamyl 
looks  at  the  object  he  retains. 

The  carriage  lamp  shows  him  Sultan  Schamyl's 
amulet.  It  was  Ghazee  the  deserter  ! 

"  You  lured  me  to  my  death,  you  she-devil,"  he 
grimly  says,  as  the  woman  opens  her  eyes.  She  is 
trembling  like  a  leaf.  .  .  . 

"  Drive    on    slowly,"   he   commands   in  Turkish. 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  89 

The  servant  mounts  the  box.  By  the  side  of  the 
carriage  the  four  sailors  tread,  pistol  in  hand. 

Nadya  Vronsky's  hand  clasps  his.  He  throws  it 
off. 

"As  God  is  my  judge,"  she  moans,  "  I  knew 
nothing  of  this.  I  saw  the  man  stealing  toward 
you,  and  the  flash  of  a  knife.  The  other  man 
sprang  out  and  grasped  him.  I  knew  no  more.  I 
feared  it  was  murder. 

"  I  wished  to  warn  you  against  Ghazee,  and  save 
that  poor  girl  from  his  clutches." 

"  Liar  and  traitress  !  It  was  Ghazee  who  attacked 
me,"  Schamyl  cries. 

"  I  am  lost  !  Mustapha  has  played  me  false. 
Ghazee  will  kill  me  !  "  moans  Nadya  Vronsky,  and 
sinks  senseless  on  the  cushions. 

Driving  slowly  to  the  bridge  head,  Schamyl  aids 
to  revive  the  frightened  woman.  Halting  in  the 
shadowy  of  the  overhanging  cypress  groves,  she 
whispers: 

"  For  my  life,  leave  me  now,  at  once  !  I  am  well. 
I  must  regain  my  home.  Follow  me  not,  on  your 
honor.  Prince,  I  have  risked  my  life  for  you  to 
night.  The  harem  walls  tell  no  tales.  Quick, 
quick  !  May  God  protect  you  !  Beware  of  Ghazee  !  " 

Schamyl's  foot  is  hardly  on  the  ground,  with 
Tarnaieff  by  his  side,  when  the  carriage  dashes  away 
at  headlong  speed.  The  servant  has  entered,  throw 
ing  the  door  to  with  a  crash. 

Silently  the  party  regain  the  boat.  Leaping  high 
out  of  the  water,  the  bows  cut  the  flashing  ripples 
of  the  inlet. 

Seated    in    the    steamer    cabin,    Prince    Schamyl 


90  PRINCE   SCHAMYL  S   WOOING. 

listens  to  the  surgeon's  report.  The  wound  is  deep 
and  serious.  Hassan  is  very  weak  from  loss  of 
blood.  He  must  not  be  disturbed. 

It  is  half-past  one.  The  anxious  commander 
suggests  immediate  departure. 

Schamyl  consents. 

In  a  half  hour,  while  Ahmed  andTarnaieff  discuss 
a  bowl  of  vodki  punch,  the  dainty  Seevoutch  is 
tossing  aside  the  dashing  spray  of  the  strait,  as  she 
drives  into  the  teeth  of  the  northeast  gale,  headed 
for  Kertsch. 

Beside  Schamyl  lies  his  father's  amulet,  and 
below  decks  his  old  henchman  groans  under  Ghazee's 
stab. 


BOOK    II. 

THE    DESERTER. — CROSS  AGAINST 
CRESCENT. 


CHAPTER   V. 

A  STORMY  INTERVIEW. — THE  ROSE  OF  TIFLIS. 
— SCHAMYL'S  QUEST.— THE  WHITE  CROSS  OF 
THE  GRAND  DUKE. 

FLYING  steeds,  panting  and  foam  flecked,  sweep 
into  the  court-yard  of  Mustapha  Pacha's  palace  in 
Istambol.  The  carriage  stops  with  a  crash.  The 
Countess  is  half  led,  half  dragged  out.  Nadya 
Vronsky  passes  the  outer  guard  in  silence.  Her 
attendant  roughly  urges  her  along.  He  grumbles: 

"  Lady,  I  have  earned  your  gold.  If  this  night 
ride  be  ever  known  to  Mustapha  Pacha,  I  will  be 
bastinadoed  and  sent  to  the  trenches ;  he  never  for 
gives." 

With  haggard  eyes  the  woman  watches  him  as 
they  hurry  through  the  silent  corridors  to  her 
rooms. 

"  And  myself  ?  "  she  hoarsely  whispers.  "  Myself, 
good  Abdallah  ! " 

The  man  gloats  over  her  delicate  beauty.  He 
eyes  her  askance.  Drawing  his  hand  over  his  throat, 


92  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

significantly,  he  growls,  "  Down  there,  with  the 
others  gone  before  !  " 

He  sweeps  his  arm  toward  where  the  moonlight 
shimmers  on  the  deep,  silent  waters  of  the  Golden 
Horn. 

Shaken  and  unnerved  the  White  Countess  throws 
herself  on  a  divan  as  the  servant  closes  her  room 
doors. 

"  Stay,  Abdallah."  She  fears  to  be  alone.  Any 
pretext  to  keep  him.  He  can  be  paid.  Ghazee 
may  soon  wreak  another's  vengeance  on  her  if  he 
is  in  his  mad  hour. 

"  I  will  give  you  gold — more  gold.  Seal  your 
lips.  Let  no  one  know.  Stay  now  on  watch  in 
the  corridors.  If  any  one  comes,  give  me  warning." 

"  Good  !  "  grunts  the  slave,  now  master  of  another 
harem  secret.  "  This  fair  Prankish  woman  has  gold 
and  jewels  of  price."  He  bows  and  leaves.  In  a 
few  moments  he  returns. 

"  Drink  this  cordial,"  he  says.     "  You  are  weak." 

The  potion  he  gives  her  restores  her  shattered 
self-control.  Her  brain  is  once  more  at  work. 
How  to  turn  Ghazee's  fury — how  to  defend  her 
self  against  Mustapha's  vengeance  ! 

The  clatter  of  hoofs  resounds  in  the  court.  Yes, 
yes,  Ghazee  has  ridden  over  the  other  bridge ! 
Abdallah  glides  down  the  corridor. 

If  he  has  corrupted  the  harem  slaves,  he  was  fore 
warned  of  her  visit  at  night. 

Does  he  suspect  treason  or  an  intrigue  ?  Nadya 
shudders,  for  she  knows  many  a  servant  has  had  his 
teeth  dashed  out  by  a  blow  of  Ghazee's  dagger 
shaft  for  a  mere  word. 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  93 

This  man,  who  had  laughed  and  gayly  breakfasted 
at  her  house  an  hour  after  killing  poor  Oliviera,  the 
Portuguese  attache,  is  coming  to  call  her  to  account. 

"  The  fool  leaped  in  the  air  and  spoiled  his  beauty 
as  he  fell  when  I  shot  him.  I  told  him  I  would  kill 
him  with  nt>  trouble."  Ghazee  Schamyl  gloated 
over  his  wine,  on  the  poor  boy's  dying  agony. 

"  I  never  liked  his  pretty  face,"  he  sneered. 

With  frightened  haste  Abdallah  rushes  into  the 
room. 

"  The  Prince  Ghazee  comes  !    Furious  !  " 

He  glides  around  the  corridor  into  a  window 
recess.  Ghazee  has  bribed  all  the  higher  servants 
of  the  harem.  They  fear  the  desperate  Circassian. 
With  an  imperious  toss  of  the  curtains  of  the  portal, 
the  maddened  deserter  strides  into  the  room. 

Nadya  Vronsky's  face  is  buried  in  her  hands. 

He  drags  her  by  the  wrists  to  a  window.  "  I 
want  all  your  story  now.  One  lie,  and  I  will  throw 
you  out  and  break  that  white  neck.  It  is  not  far  to 
the  shore." 

He  growls  like  a  wounded  bear. 

"  What  deviltry  were  you  plotting  ?  Telling  all 
you  know  to  that  Slav  cur,  Ignatief  ? 

"  Speak  !  I  will  throttle  you,  if  you  don't  find 
words." 

Her  heart  bounds  under  her  silken  gown  madly. 
She  is  on  the  brink  of  her  grave. 

"  Ghazee  !  It  was  love  for  you  led  me  to  risk  my 
life." 

He  snarls.    "  Love  !     A  likely  tale  !     You  lie  ! 

"  I  found  out  where  you  were.  I  watched  your 
messengers  hanging  around  the  quay.  I  had  a 


94  PRINCE   SCHAMYL  S   WOOING 

report  from  a  spy  at  Odessa  that  Dimitri  was  fol 
lowing  that  Giaour  slave,  my  brother,  here. 

"  I  watched  him.  My  men  saw  your  messenger  in 
waiting.  I  read  your  billet.  I  would  have  killed 
that  young  fool,  but  for  the  old  wretch  who  has  a 
taste  of  my  dagger.  My  trap  was  to  catch  him, 
through  you. 

"  Now  I  will  settle  with  you."  He  throws  him 
self  on  her. 

Clasping  him  around  the  knees,  the  frightened 
woman  begs  for  mercy. 

"  I  wanted  to  see  you — you  alone !  Oh  !  take  me 
away  from  here.  Anywhere,  but  with  you.  Musta- 
pha  will  kill  me  when  he  comes,  if  you  leave  me. 

"  These  slaves  will  tell  him  all.  He  may  even 
harm  you.  I  will  tell  you  news."  And  she  gives  him 
the  story  of  Dimitri's  death — of  Mustapha's  under 
plots  against  him. 

Ghazee  throws  her  off.  He  muses.  "  Sit  there," 
he  growls.  "  Answer  me. 

"  Does  that  fool  Ahmed  know  my  plans  ?  " 

"No!"  she  falters. 

He  glares  at  her  in  silence. 

Ambition  goads  him  to  a  brother's  murder  for 
that  glittering  coronet  of  Armenia. 

"  I  will  take  you  along.  If  you  have  given 
Ahmed  any  news  which  will  reach  Ignatief,  I  will 
have  you  thrown  to  the  wild  Kurds  as  a  camp 
follower. 

"  You  may  be  of  some  use  to  me  at  Kars.  I  will 
have  some  woman's  work  for  you  there.  If  you  are 
wise,  you  will  obey  me  strictly.  If  you  play  me 
false,  you  may  come  back  here  to  have  Mustapha 


PRINCE   SCHAMYL  S   WOOING.  95 

work  his  will  on  you.  I  will  send  him  a  cipher 
that  I  have  taken  you  along.  These  slaves  are  in 
my  pay.  They  will  be  silent.  If  you  are  sensible, 
I  may  send  you  back  here  to  watch  the  palace 
intrigues.  Mustapha  is  a  deep  schemer,  but  I  must 
keep  his  friendship.  You  might  spy  on  him  for 
me  here." 

Nadya  Vronsky  throws  herself  on  her  knees  be 
fore  him.  "  I  swear  to  you,  Ghazee,  I  will  follow 
your  orders  in  life  and  death.  I  love  you !  You 
know  my  past.  I  will  die  for  you — with  you  ! 

"  Take  me  away  from  here.  The  very  air  breathes 
murder !  I  loathe  these  slaves !  I  shall  go  mad 
here  !  v  She  is  sobbing  wildly. 

"  Get  up !     No  hysterics  !     You  may  yet  be  the 
friend  of  the  Princess  of  Armenia." 
'  He  walks  the  floor. 

"  It  is  true  !  Mustapha  hates  Armenians.  This 
fool  has  an  influence  over  him,"  he  muses  and 
speaks. 

"  I  wish  to  draw  off  that  Georgian  tribe  who  fol 
low  the  girl  Princess  of  Tiflis.  She  must  be  treated 
well.  You  may  help  to  amuse  her." 

"  And  you  will  make  her  your  wife,"  Nadya  mur 
murs. 

"  One  of  them,"  Ghazee  briefly  adds.  "  My  faith 
allows  me  several.  You  will  do  for  one.  Don't 
forget  my  caution.  Serve  me  and  watch  my  inter 
ests,  for  your  life  hangs  on  your  fidelity  !  " 

The  next  day  Mustapha's  harem  has  lost  one 
tenant,  for  the  White  Countess  is  on  the  deck  of  a 
Turkish  steamer  with  Ghazee  sailing  toward  Trebi- 
zond.  His  troops  wait  him  at  Kars. 


g6  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

While  the  Seevoutch  dashes  northward  through 
the  silent  night,  Schamyl  and  Tarnaieff  unravel  the 
seeming  mystery  of  the  attack. 

Ghazee  must  have  succeeded  in  reaching  the  Bos 
porus  to  confer  with  the  immobile  masters  of 
Muhktar  Pacha  and  the  great  Osman.  These  great 
leaders  now  watch  the  Turkish  lines  in  Asia  and 
Europe. 

A  "  holy  war  "  will  be  proclaimed  by  frantic  Der 
vish  and  sly  Ulema.  The  hated  Russ  will  be 
attacked  (in  front  and  rear)  in  Asia  Minor,  and 
withstood  along  the  Danube. 

Tarnaieff  is  ignorant  of  the  social  tableaux  pre 
sented  in  the  shifting  kaleidoscopic  salons  of  St. 
Petersburg. 

He,  however,  instantly  divines  the  policy  of 
Ghazee.  Nadya  Vronsky,  Mustapha's  spy,  must 
be  watched  until  the  Turkish  legation  leaves  St. 
Petersburg.  The  ambassador's  "  honor "  is  at 
stake. 

Ghazee's  enormous  wealth  and  his  secret  connec 
tions  at  Constantinople  make  it  easy  for  him  to 
watch,  by  his  spies,  the  Russian  Embassy  at  the 
"  four  corners." 

Ghazee  had  discovered  his  brother's  arrival. 

The  friends  sit  late  over  the  flowing  vodki  bowl 
(for  the  breeze  wails  coldly  from  the  north).  They 
agree  that  Mustapha  has  secretly  advised  Ghazee  to 
watch  every  movement  of  the  impulsive  "  White 
Countess."  She  might  play  the  famous  "  double 
cross,"  and  give  Ignatief  news  of  vital  importance. 
Russian  gold  is  as  heavy  as  Turkish. 

Strange,    mysterious   philtre    of   love  !      Burning 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  97 

human  madness!  Unreasoning  desire  to  attain 
the  unreachable!  Nadya  Vronsky's  only  motive  is 
a  frenzied  woman's  jealousy. 

Her  two  masters  basely  think  she  slaves  with  un 
sleeping  cunning  for  gold  alone. 

It  is  to  them  the  sparkling,  invincible  yellow 
stream  of  the  coveted  dross  which  passes  through 
the  finest  diplomatic  nets — burning,  cutting,  break 
ing  down. 

Nadya  Vronsky  shuddered  when  she  left  her 
gilded  prison  walls  at  Istambol  to  meet  Schamyl. 

She  knows  well  many  fair  women's  faces  have 
drifted  upturned  on  the  deep  waters  of  the  Bos 
porus.  A  scream,  a  plunge — dark  forms  watching 
the  sinking  victim,  as  a  white  robe  flashes  once  or 
twice  on  the  merciless  waters !  Silence,  and  a  few 
broadening  circles. 

The  leafy  groves  of  Seraglio  Point  could  whisper 
tales  of  murder  chilling  the  blood. 

Dissimulation  and  death  reign  over  these  beauti 
ful  harem  bowers,  whose  fragrant  boughs  sweep  to 
the  ground  loaded  with  the  rich  fruitage  of  orange 
and  pomegranate.  There,  in  the  silent  glades,  the 
bird  of  night  sings  over  the  graves  of  the  forgotten 
and  hapless  victims  of  lust's  fury  or  deadly  intrigue  ! 

Ghazee's  gold  had  easily  corrupted  the  messen 
gers  of  the  White  Countess.  Slaves  sell  their  very 
soul. 

It  was  indeed  his  design  to  cut  the  succession  to 
the  coveted  coronet  of  the  Caucasus  with  the  blow 
intended  for  a  brother's  heart. 

When  morning  dawns,  the  two  friends  stand  by 
Hassan's  bedside.  The  tough  old  servitor  is  able 


98  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

to  thank  Schamyl  with  his  dog-like  eyes.  When 
questioned,  he  turns  his  face  to  the  wall  and  whis 
pers:  "  The  great  master."  He  knew  well  whose 
hand  guided  the  knife.  He  fears  Ghazee's  awful 
curse. 

There  is  no  danger  of  a  grave  result.  The  heavy 
blade  fortunately  slipped  and  turned  on  a  rib. 

The  boat  races  along  over  the  curling  billows  of 
the  Black  Sea.  Tarnaieff  is  glad  to  be  relieved 
of  the  responsibility  of  his  princely  friend,  who 
bears  the  precious  despatches.  No  more  escapades. 

Schamyl  listens  impatiently  to  the  many  warn 
ings  of  his  comrade.  He  cuts  them  all  short. 

"  Tarnaieff,  I  go  now  direct  to  Tiflis.  After  last 
night,  I  shall  show  Ghazee  no  mercy !  He  cannot 
reach  Tiflis  as  soon  as  I  will — even  if  it  were  not  a 
desperate  quest  for  a  Russian  deserter,  whose  life 
would  pay  the  forfeit  at  once. 

"  If  we  meet  on  the  field,  there  will  be  no  quarter. 
I  would  not  he  dies  by  my  hand,  but  I  shall  strike 
home  and  spare  not !  " 

Thirty-six  hours  more  brings  the  low  hills  and 
mud  huts  of  straggling  Kertsch  up  from  the  hori 
zon.  Hassan  is  able  to  hobble  ashore. 

The  commander  grins  with  joy  as  his  mysterious 
charge  leaves  the  ship's  side.  He  fain  would  have 
no  further  mishap  with  this  too  important  person 
age. 

An  officer  of  the  staff,  warned  by  telegraph, 
salutes  Schamyl.  In  an  hour  the  special  train  is 
puffing  at  the  depot.  The  general  in  command 
will  waive  any  formal  visit. 

Ahmed's  orders   are   to    proceed    forthwith.     In 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  99 

the  second  car  of  the  little  train,  a  sergeant  and 
half  a  dozen  Cossacks  of  the  Ataman  Regiment  of 
the  Don,  are  a  ready  body-guard.  They  wait  the 
beck  and  call  of  their  lieutenant  (a  hawk-eyed 
youth),  who  reports  to  Schamyl,  as  guide,  guard, 
and  companion. 

TarnaiefT  glances  toward  the  rolling  yellow  hills 
rising  up  to  the  east  and  north — the  first  spurs  of 
the  grand  Caucasus. 

"  We  shall  meet,  my  Prince,  and  lead  a  charge 
together  on  those  rascals  over  there  !  Au  revoir  at 
Tiflis." 

Wringing  Ahmed's  hand,  the  gallant  young 
Armenian  watches  the  train  dart  away. 

In  a  half-hour,  the  Seevoutch  skims  like  a  swal 
low  toward  the  lovely  harbor  of  the  glowing  south, 
where  inscrutable  Ignatief  is  now  preparing  for  his 
last  "  coup  de  theatre,"  of  breaking  off  all  relations. 
His  "  promenade  en  diplomat  "  of  the  capitals  awaits 
him.  War  is  only  waiting  for  the  snows  to  melt. 

Then  the  truncheon  of  the  mighty  White  Czar, 
lord  of  a  hundred  tribes,  will  be  thrown  down  for 
a  murderous  war. 

"Au  revoir  at  Tiflis!"  Yes,  these  words  haunt 
Schamyl  as  the  light  train  flies  over  the  bare  plains 
of  the  southern  steppes. 

His  heart  beats  lightly.  Every  revolution  of  the 
wheels  bears  him  nearer  to  sweet  "  Maritza."  Fleet 
are  the  panther  feet  of  love.  The  plains  fly  by 
unheeded.  Home  of  the  Crim  Tartars  and  the 
Don  Cossacks — old  lands  trampled  under  the 
charger's  feet  of  the  "  Golden  Band,"  the  "  White 
Horde,"  and  the  savage  Scythians. 


100  PRINCE    SCHAMYL  S   WOOING. 

On  the  grassy  hillocks  the  mounted  Cossack 
watches  his  herds.  In  a  month,  the  signal  cry  will 
rally  the  wildest  riders  of  the  world,  under  the  blue 
and  white  cross.  Their  lances  will  shine  on  the 
Armenian  plains. 

Hassan  is  gaining  hourly.  He  grimly  smiles,  as 
he  realizes  he  will  see  again  the  holy  land  of  the 
Tcherkess — the  defiles  of  his  own  rugged  Daghestan, 
and  the  fruity  bowers  of  lovely  Georgia. 

Morning  comes,  after  a  wild  rushing  night,  racing 
over  the  rough  foot-hills. 

Schamyl  refreshes  himself  en  route.  Save  for 
fuel  and  water,  there  are  no  stops. 

Fast  are  the  Czar's  riders.  Like  lightning  his 
august  mandates  are  borne  through  storm  and 
stress. 

Afar  in  the  south,  a  silver  cone  now  rises  glisten 
ing  in  the  vast  sea  of  the  grassy  prairie,  swept  by 
the  icy  breeze  for  countless  miles. 

Hassan  struggles  to  his  elbow.  He  faintly  calls 
Schamyl.  Pointing  a  feeble  finger  he  murmurs, 
"  Dsching  Padishah,"  "  the  Great  Spirit  ;  "  for  it  is 
indeed  the  mystic  Elburz  peak  towering  over 
eighteen  thousand  feet  to  heaven. 

Anon,  Kazbek  lifts  its  rugged  mass  sixteen  thou 
sand  feet  in  air,  world-famed  Ararat  rises  in  this 
awful  trinity  of  rose-tinted,  silvery  snow  moun 
tains. 

Pagan  and  Persian,  Gheber  and  wild  Moslem, 
fiery  Armenian  clinging  to  the  Cross,  and  scattered 
Kurdish  devil-worshippers — all  find  inspiration  in 
these  awful  monuments  of  God's  sculpture. 

Now  the  sunlight  breaks  upon  a  thousand  lower 


PRINCE   SCHAMYL  S   WOOING.  IOI 

silver-sheathed  mountain  peaks.  It  is  the  snow 
king's  citadel.  The  train  flies  along  at  fifty  miles 
an  hour. 

Below  the  snow  line,  dark  purple  masses  of  mist 
roll  away.  There  in  witching  beauty  lie  the  heavily 
wooded  ranges  of  the  second  mountains. 

Giant  oaks,  cedars,  bloodwood,  and  taxus  crown 
these  misty  hills,  where  the  savage  wolf,  the  bound 
ing  deer,  and  tusked  boar  are  lords  of  the  hill. 

In  among  the  gorges  and  defiles  the  road  twists 
and  turns. 

For  thirty  years  Russia  poured  its  devoted 
soldiers  into  the  gloomy  fastnesses  of  the  forests 
now  spreading  their  savage  grandeur  around — a 
graveyard  of  armies. 

Rich  valleys,  deep  defiles,  and  splendid  river 
canyons  open  into  the  heart  of  the  Caucasus. 

Five   millions  of    half-subdued  liegemen   of    the 
Czar  roam  over  the  two   hundred  thousand   square 
miles  of    the   great  Caucasus   range.     The   Kuban 
railway  is  one  of  five   great   military  routes  joining' 
Russia  and  Asia  Minor. 

Four  hundred  miles  from  Kertsch  to  Baku,  the 
great  chain  sweeps,  breaking  in  Daghestan  into 
huge  hills,  seven  and  eight  thousand  feet  in  air. 

Schamyl's  heart  beats  proudly,  as,  far  toward  the 
rising  sun,  he  sees  the  sharp  peaks  hanging  over 
distant  "  Gunib,"  where  the  Lion  of  Daghestan 
held  so  long  his  mountain  eyrie,  undefiled. 

Through  these  gorges,  for  a  generation,  the  oft- 
defeated  armies  of  the  Czar  plodded  to  their  death 
under  Jermoloff,  Paskiewitch,  Von  Rosen,  Grabbe, 
Mouraviefl,  and  Woronzoff. 


IO2 


After  the  devoted  gray-clad  Russians  had 
watered  every  acre  of  this  mystic  land  with  their 
heart's  blood,  the  gallant  Baryatinsky  reduced,  one 
by  one,  the  great  fortresses  of  nature — these  strong 
holds  which  foiled  even  desperate  armies  led  by  a 
Czar  in  person. 

Schamyl  is  in  revery  as  the  train  sweeps  past 
the  queerly  decorated  and  palisaded  wooded  houses. 
Flocks  and  herds  are  everywhere.  In  the  long 
stretches  of  forest,  the  box,  fig,  pomegranate,  and 
wild  pear  enrich  the  shrubbery. 

Perfumed  branches  of  laurel  and  myrtle,  with  the 
azalea,  arbutus,  wild  roses,  and  violets,  will  make 
this  a  paradise  when  the  spring  sun  bids  the  blos 
soms  open. 

Buffalo  and  wild  horses  and  the  giant  elk  abound 
here  in  the  meadows. 

Above,  on  the  crested  heights,  the  gazelle,  cha 
mois,  and  silver  moufflon  gaze  at  the  meaner  world 
below. 

In  and  out  the  rock-ribbed  gorges,  the  little  train 
twists.  On  these  northern  slopes,  the  bear,  wolf, 
jackal,  and  tiger  stray.  The  mighty  aurochs  wan 
ders  sullenly  in  the  glen.  Pheasants  whirr  from 
tree  to  tree.  They  wait  the  richest  season  of  the 
year,  when  the  plum,  apple,  peach,  and  pear  trees 
bend  and  groan  under  their  precious  burdens. 

There  is  no  land  like  the  Caucasus.  Its  magic 
panorama  of  daring,  witching  beauty  is  wild  and 
lonely  in  unearthly  loveliness. 

Huge  granite  and  basalt  masses  lie  around,  scat 
tered  by  the  Titans  of  old  in  their  play.  Far 
above  towers  the  mount  where  Prometheus  in 


PRINCE    SCHAMYL  S    WOOING.  IO3 

agony,  bound  to  the  rocks,  was  the  sport  of  the 
gods  on  old  Kasbek's  seamy  sides. 

The  "  sacred  fires  of  Baku  "  still  burn  in  their 
holy  wells,  adored  here  by  the  last  of  the  dreamy 
Persian  clan  of  Ghebers. 

This  is  the  land  of  hospitality,  of  beauty,  of  im 
passioned  oratory,  of  wild  tradition,  of  freedom  ! 

Stepping  stones  to  God's  freest  vaults  of  ether 
are  these  romantic  peaks. 

Around  them  the  world  has  grown  old  and  worn. 
They  mock  to-day  the  dozen  conquests  of  great 
Constantinople,  lying  over  against  them  at  the  out 
let  of  the  Black  Sea,  a  mere  lake  at  their  feet. 

Fiery  Tcherkess,  wild  children  of  Daghestan,  and 
the  devilish  Kurd  are  here  unchanged  and  unchange 
able  as  the  rocks  under  their  feet. 

Everything  in  this  romantic  morning  land  speaks 
to  Schamyl  of  his  warrior  father,  the  weird  seer  and 
sultan  of  the  sword. 

Rushing  along  the  splendidly  constructed  road, 
Schamyl,  in  the  heart  of  the  mountains  (while  his 
engine  is  changed),  telegraphs  Platoff  at  Petersburg 
to  send  all  to  Tiflis,  where  the  next  day's  sun  will 
greet  him. 

Hewed  out  of  the  mountain  sides,  the  superb  main 
road  (a  triumph  of  modern  engineering)  leads  from 
the  Volga  to  the  great  fortress  of  Vladikaukas,  the 
gate  of  the  Caucasus,  holding  with  steel-mouthed 
cannon  the  grand  pass  of  Dariel. 

By  five  railroads  the  Czar  can  throw  troops  and 
supplies  to  far  Baku,  or  rapidly  reinforce  Tiflis  and 
Goomri,  the  great  border  stronghold  on  the  Kara, 
now  Russianized  as  "  Alexandropol." 


104  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

There  is  a  wonderful  genius  in  these  ample  provis 
ions  to  hold  communication  for  even  the  greatest  of 
modern  armies.  The  Czar's  flag  is  planted  on  the 
Persian  borders  of  the  Caspian,  as  well  as  flutter 
ing  defiance  along  the  great  Turkish  frontiers,  facing 
Kars,  Bayazid,  and  Erzeroum. 

Ahmed  listlessly  tries  a  game  of  vingt  et  un  with 
his  wild-eyed  escort  officer. 

He  is  a  mere  thing  to  swing  a  sword  on  !  Relaps 
ing  into  moody  silence,  Schamyl  watches  the  play  of 
the  sunset  glories  among  the  purpling  hills. 

Through  the  silent  glories  of  the  starlit  night,  with 
the  wild  voices  of  the  singing  pines  wailing  above, 
onward  ever,  there  is  neither  stop  nor  rest ! 

Gratefully  does  Schamyl  leave  his  swaying  de 
spatch-car  when  the  warm  mountain  spring  sun  of 
morning  sparkles  on  the  white  crests  at  Vladikau- 
kas. 

Out  of  the  embrace  of  the  black  mountains  the  lit 
tle  escort  speeds  into  the  rich  beauty  of  the  heart  of 
Georgia.  For  Ahmed  has  two  hundred  miles  of  a 
ride  to  finish  his  journey.  Three  days'  travel  ends  it. 
He  must  first  report.  Then  will  it  be  "  au  rev.oir  " 
at  Tiflis?  The  ardent  Circassian  thinks  less  of  the 
fiery  Melikoff  than  of  the  darling  woman's  face  whose 
sweetness  and  passion  haunt  his  waking  hours — 
whose  unrivalled  beauty  gilds  his  dreams  at  night  ! 

Crowds  of  soldiers  and  guards  throng  the  streets 
at  Tiflis.  Creeping  out  from  under  a  high  mountain 
range  into  the  fertile  plains  of  the  Kura,  the  military 
causeway  enters  the  Georgian  capital  on  the  river 
bank,  five  hundred  feet  only  above  the  Euxine  level. 

While   Schamyl   heartily  greets  an  old  friend  of 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  105 

the  Guards,  now  an  aide  of  General  MelikofT,  he 
is  bidden  to  join  the  general  at  breakfast.  Ahmed 
leaves  the  care  of  his  wounded  servant  and  luggage 
to  the  escort  officer. 

The  despatches ! — A  soldierly  welcome  from  the 
glittering  circle  of  the  staff  is  waiting  Schamyl, 
whose  quarters  are  assigned  already.  His  own 
despatch  by  military  telegraph  has  arrived. 

Huge  parks  of  artillery,  mountainous  piles  of 
shot,  shell,  and  munitions  are  littered  around  the 
town.  Sentinels  and  guards  stalk  everywhere.  As 
Schamyl  drives  through  the  old  quarters  of  Tiflis,  he 
notes  the  town  of  a  hundred  thousand  is  tempora 
rily  almost  doubled  in  size.  Every  possible  accumu 
lation  of  stores  gluts  the  magazines.  In  the  Asiatic 
half  of  the  capital,  the  mingling  of  varied  colors  and 
diverse  types  is  strangely  bizarre.  Armenians  (hol 
low  chested  and  mournful  eyed),  noble  Georgians 
(type  of  the  Caucasian  race),  sly-looking  Persians, 
stolid  Russians,  unkempt  Cossacks,  bustling  Ger 
mans,  outlandish  Kurds,  and  humbled  Jews  pour 
along  the  ways. 

Ponies,  camels,  chargers,  tamed  buffalo,  and  wild- 
eyed  mountain  cattle  throng  the  narrow  streets, 
whence  shouts  and  yells  arise  in  Babel-like  confusion. 

The  stone  and  mud  walled   houses  rise  no  higher 

o 

than  two  stories,  with  bosky  gardens  fronting  on 
the  rushing  Kura  or  "  Blackwater." 

The  heavy  forts  and  outworks  are  strongly  gar 
risoned,  for  Tiflis  is  the  central  nucleus  of  the  army 
of  Trans-Caucasus,  a  hundred  and  fifty  thousand 
strong  to  be. 

Though  stifling  hot  in  summer,  and   icy  cold   in 


io6  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

winter,  Tiflis  has  its  social  charms.  It  is  now 
throbbing  with  the  life  of  the  semi-regal  Governor- 
General's  court. 

As  the  carriage  sweeps  over  to  the  luxurious 
modern  Russian  quarter  on  the  great  square,  a 
superb  band  is  playing  witching  Strauss  waltzes  be 
fore  the  palace  of  General  Melikoff. 

The  yellow  and  black  double  eagle  of  the  iiru 
perial  standard  floats  lazily  on  the  palace.  The 
Grand  Duke  Michael  is  here  to  superintend  the 
military  pageantry  of  hurling  a  hundred  thousand 
men  on  the  turbaned  foe.  Calm  Gortschakoff  is 
even  now  inditing  "  protocols,"  which  in  their  artful 
wording  are  more  bitter  than  myrrh  to  the  Turk. 

Thrilling  along  the  talking  wire  a  simple  mes 
sage— 

"  Cross  !  " — will  soon  bring  the  fateful  forward 
movement  toward  Constantinople. 

In  this  early  January  sun  the  square  is  alive  with 
officers,  ladies,  and  all  the  entourage  of  a  great  head 
quarters.  A  restless  impatience  thrills  the  com 
munity.  Towering  in  air,  the  old  cathedral  disdains 
the  meaner  mosque  and  the  clustering  Armenian 
convents. 

An  air  of  brisk  gayety  haunts  Tiflis — the  Paris  of 
Asia  Minor.  The  grand  ducal  palace,  a  splendid 
opera-house,  with  clubs  and  hotels  a  la  mode,  are 
monuments  of  the  luxury  of  the  city  of  provincial 
government.  Fifty-four  empty  churches  attest  the 
fierce  rivalry  of  different  warring  faiths.  Good  seed 
wasted  on  the  stoniest  soil.  They  are  empty  ever. 
The  opera  bouffe  and  cafes  chantant  are  crowded 
with  the  epauletted  pride  of  Russia. 


PRINCE   SCHAMYL  S   WOOING.  IO? 

Viennese  dancers,  Hungarian  gypsies  (their  eyes 
as  black  as  sloes),  and  all  the  wandering  flotsam  and 
jetsam  of  Continental  womanhood  minister  to  that 
morbid  craving  for  amusement,  which  is  a  reflex  of 
the  war  fever. 

Wine  flows  and  gold  rattles.  Laugh  and  wild 
jest,  with  thunders  of  applause,  greet  the  merry 
tricks  of  the  fair  sirens.  Vive  la  bagatelle  ! 

In  the  suburbs  long  lines  of  stalwart  soldiery 
parade  between  their  winter  huts.  In  bazaar  and 
by  street,  the  treasures  of  Aleppo,  Samarcand, 
Damascus,  Teheran,  and  the  unrivalled  metal  work 
and  embroideries  of  the  Orient  tempt  the  unwary. 

Pearls  of  Ormuz,  sapphires  of  Ceylon,  azure  tur 
quoises  of  magic  virtue  are  displayed  in  heaps,  with 
the  jewels,  amber,  and  filigree  so  beloved  by  the 
Moslem. 

While  Schamyl's  carriage  parts  the  throng  in  the 
square,  he  recognizes,  here  and  there,  a  defiant, 
lithe  Circassian,  moving  with  that  air  of  indescrib 
able  haughtiness  which  has  given  rise  to  the  proverb, 
when  a  swelling  port  is  exhibited  : 

"  He  is  either  a  commanding  general  or  a  Cir 
cassian  of  the  Guard." 

Jealous  and  quick  in  quarrel,  as  keen  eyed  as  the 
mountain  hawks  circling  in  the  thin  ether,  the 
Circassian  is  the  king  of  men  in  his  majestic 
bearing. 

At  the  threshold  of  the  grand  ducal  palace,  the 
sentinels  present  to  the  aiguillettes  of  the  aide. 

In  five  minutes  Schamyl  stands  before  General 
Loris  Melikoff,  "  the  coming  man." 

Alert,  robust,  thin  lipped,  with  cold,  steady,  deep 


io8  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

searching  eyes,  the  Armenian-  general  lifts  his  eyes 
from  his  map. 

"  Prince  Schamyl,  you  are  attached  to  my  staff. 
General  Dragmiroff  will  give  you  your  orders.  You 
have  despatches  from  General  Ignatief  ?  " 

Schamyl  bows  as  he  hands  the  Czar's  wily  cham 
pion  the  sealed  packet. 

The  man  who  is  to  lead  into  the  field  a  Grand 
Duke  (as  military  mentor)  tears  open  the  papers. 

Heedless  of  Schamyl,  standing  "  at  attention," 
Melikoff  devours  the  cipher. 

"  This  must  go  to  the  Grand  Duke.  You  will 
breakfast  with  me." 

He  nods  carelessly,  and,  grasping  his  sabre,  strides 
out  of  the  room,  followed  by  two  enormous  Siberian 
hounds. 

In  three  hours  Schamyl  has  made  himself  "  au 
fait  "  with  the  racy  gossip  of  Tiflis.  His  simple 
manage  as  a  soldier  is  in  order.  A  couple  of  huge 
palace  rooms  are  his,  an  orderly  at  his  disposal,  and 
his  seat  at  the  staff  table  assigned. 

At  the  breakfast  hour  he  is  presented  to  the 
Grand  Duke  Michael,  who  is  affability  itself. 
Schamyl  is  "  en  regie." 

"  Ah,  Schamyl,  you  are  the  man  we  want  !  Just 
reported  !  Let  me  see.  Are  you  we'll  mounted  ?  " 
The  Grand  Duke  chats  over  his  wine. 

Schamyl  briefly  reports  the  reason  of  his  arrival 
without  chargers. 

"  Get  some  good  mounts.  I  am  going  to  send  you  on 
a  general  tour,  with  a  couple  of  sotnias  of  the  Guard 
Cossacks.  Your  old  regiment  may  come  to  us  later." 

When  the  glittering  "  mess  "  breaks  up,  Schamyl, 


PRI  HAMYL'S   \V  UX 

with  one  or  two  friends,  passes  his  day  in  choosing 
a  couple  of  animals  worthy  of  the  Centaur  he  is. 
ng  price  does  not  frighten  him.  "  In  Eastern 
countries  the  steed  often  bears  the  master  in  life  and 
death  dashes." 

Despatches  and  mail  from  Platoff  tell  him  of  mo 
bilization.     His  man  and  heavy  goods  wait  him  at 
the  border.     He  telegraphs  for  the  maitre  d'hotel 
and  his  reserve  luggage. 
Paul  writes : 

••  I  go  with  the  horse  artillery  to  the  Danube. 
My  battery  is  in  splendid  order.  Nothing  here  but 
war  talk. 

Hy  the  way,  the  Turkish  Embassy  leaves  here  in 
a  few  d.. 

\V;  i:e  me  to  my  corps  headquarters  as  soon  as 
o.    Till  then,  here.  I  await  your  news  impa 
tiently.     My  compliments  to   the   lovely  Prir. 
Maritza!" 

Ah,  yes!  the  lady  of  Georgia!  While  Schamyl 
gallops  his  new  steeds  a  half-hour  or  so  in  the  sub 
urbs  to  try  their  paces,  he  carelessly  asks  his  fellow- 
aide,  Gronoff,  where  the  Princess  Mar  v  be 
found. 

She  is   vith  the  Lazarefi-  -it  their 

pal.  You  remember,  Nina  Lazareff  and  Tia 

/re  at  the  Catherine  Institute  with  the 

\\  V  does  Schamyl  remember  the  lovely  trio, 
called  the  **  Th:  -  -  by  their  fond  girl  iss 

.il  instil 
"  There  is  their  pal.i  I  v  ;ra  in 


no  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

Gronoff  indicates  its  white  fagade  with  his  whip, 
as  they  swing  their  steeds  homeward. 

"  There  is  great  fun  up  there  now.  General  Laz 
areff  has  no  less  a  visitor  than  the  Lady  Fatima,  the 
daughter  of  Ismail  Pacha,  the  vali  of  Erzeroum. 
She  has  been  at  the  schools  here,  and  will  soon  be 
sent  home  under  an  escort  of  honor.  A  wild,  un 
tamable  hawk  is  that  Kurdish  princess!  Just  as 
dangerous  as  a  young  tiger ! 

"  Prince,  you  will  see  all  the  famous  beauties  at  the 
grand  ball  which  General  Melikoff  gives  to  the  Grand 
Duke  in  a  few  days.  We  can  show  you  as  pretty 
a  ball-room  here  as  at  the  Cercle  de  Noblesse  in 
Petersburg." 

Schamyl  gives  his  charger  the  rein.  There  is  no 
reason  why  he  should  disguise  any  longer  his  hand 
some  proportions  en  mufti.  Yet,  he  must  wait. 

The  next  day  crawls  along  until  the  afternoon. 
The  morning  brings  his  man  and  luggage. 

There  is  a  spice  of  military  coquetry  in  the  care 
with  which  Ahmed  dons  all  the  bravery  of  his  pic 
turesque  uniform.  A  little  billet,  in  answer  to  his 
own,  tells  him  that  the  Princess  Maritza  will  see  him 
with  pleasure. 

When  the  carriage  sweeps  up  to  the  portals  of  the 
Lazareff  mansion,  Schamyl  eagerly  enters  the  salon. 

Duty  causes  him  to  linger  with  his  lips  on  the  hand 
of  Madame  Lazareff — "grande  dame  "  and  a  kindly 
friend. 

Raising  his  eyes,  he  sees  at  her  side,  with  her  lovely 
laughing  companions,  the  lady  of  his  dreams,  the 
belle  of  belles — sweet  Maritza. 

"You  have  not  forgotten  me,  I  trust,  Princess," 


PRINCE    SCHAMYLS   WOOING.  Ill 

he  murmurs,   as  her  splendid   eyes  are  fixed  upon 
him. 

"  Mon    Prince!    It  was  '  au    revoir  at   Tiflis!'- 
n'est-ce  pas  ?     Fate  brings  us  together  in  the  Cau 
casus,  on  the  eve  of  a  terrible  war,  I  fear ! " 

Her  wistful  voice  thrills  him  with  its  exquisite 
music. 

In  a  half-hour  the  bevy  of  graces  have  taken  the 
young  Guardsman  into  their  fairy  junta.  The  grand 
ball  is  the  topic  dear  to  the  hearts  of  these  budding 
beauties  of  Tiflis.  Ahmed  does  not  lose  a  moment 
to  claim  the  honor  of  the  mazurka  at  the  fete. 

It  is  granted.     Love's  madness  chains  him. 

Wandering  in  the  great  gardens,  where  delicate 
leaves  already  speak  of  spring — their  slopes  sweeping 
down  to  the  willow-shaded  banks  of  the  swift  Kura 
— Ahmed  walks  alone  with  the  young  princess. 
Stretching  far  away  over  the  bleak  southern  stony 
valley  are  three  highways  leading  to  the  Turkish 
frontier. 

On  the  other  side,  huge  masses  of  Turks  are  ready 
to  reach,  in  three  days,  the  lines  where  the  Moslem 
cavalry  even  now  picket  the  border. 

In  the  gardens  Schamyl  meets  a  tall  veiled  lady, 
followed  by  two  attendants.  It  is  the  young  Prin 
cess  Fatima.  When  Ahmed  greets  her,  in  her  native 
Turkish,  he  can  only  see  two  dark  eyes  glittering 
like  basilisks.  Though  an  adept  in  Russian  and 
French,  the  Lady  Fatima  prefers  her  own  dialect. 

"  I  knew  your  brother,  the  great  Prince  Ghazee," 
she  sharply  says,  eying  Schamyl's  Russian  uniform 
askance. 

Ahmed  starts. 


I  12 


"  Indeed,  Princess!     Where  did  you  meet  him?" 

"  He  visited  my  father  last  year  at  Erzeroum. 
They  are  very  great  friends." 

Schamyl  finds  this  conversation  awkward.  Then 
Ghazee  has  laid  his  secret  snares  long  in  advance  of 
the  coming  conflict.  For  Ismail  Pacha  is  the  hard 
est  task-master  and  coldest  brute  even  among  the 
rapacious  pachas  of  Asia  Minor.  Fit  associate  of  a 
renegade  traitor ! 

"  Where  is  your  brother?  I  liked  him  very 
much,"  the  Kurdish  princess  demands. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  Ahmed  replies,  at  random.  He 
catches  a  swift  glance  from  the  Princess  Maritza. 
His  brother's  shame  is  now  known  to  all! 

"  He  is  a  great  warrior !  He  is  a  Moslem,"  the 
Kurd  says  proudly,  as  she  turns  away.  "  I  hate 
the  Giaour  and  the  Russ  !  " 

"A  strange  being,"  Ahmed  says,  to  break  the 
awkward  silence.  His  companion's  eyes  are  down 
cast.  She  pities  him. 

"She  is  very  strange,"  Maritza  replies.  "She 
talks  always  of  your  brother  Ghazee.  I  feared 
Prince  Ghazee  always.  He  is  cold  and  haughty." 

Schamyl  checks  his  speech.  Shall  he  warn  her 
now?  No!  At  the  ball  he  can  talk.  He  will  not 
alarm  this  gentle  girl  yet.  He  will  talk  with  the 
LazarefTs.  She  should  go  !  Yet,  love  ! 

As  they  stroll  back  to  the  mansion,  Maritza  tells 
him  all  her  girlish  budget  of  news : 

"  We  have  had  a  great  panic  here  at  Tiflis,  until 
the  main  body  of  the  troops  came.  It  is  only  three 
days'  march  to  the  frontier.  Bands  of  Kurdish 
horse  have  overrun  the  border.  They  live  by 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  113 

plunder  only.  And,  Prince,  there  have  been  many 
desertions  of  men  and  officers  all  along  our  line 
from  Goomri  to  Baku." 

"Will  you  remain  here,  Princess?"  queries 
Schamyl. 

"  Unless  Madame  Lazareff  goes  into  Russia  when 
the  general  takes  the  field.  The  Abkhasians  are 
very  restless  along  the  Black  Sea  around  Poti. 
They  are  treacherous.  But,  if  the  troops  cross 
over  to  the  Araxes  and  the  Euphrates,  we  will  stay 
here,  Prince — unless — " 

"Unless  what,  Maritza?"  Schamyl  speaks  ea 
gerly.  He  drops  into  anxious  fondness. 

"  They  say,"  the  girl  falters,  "  that  your  brother 
Ghazee  will  stir  up  a  great  revolt  among  the  Circas 
sians.  Then,  it  would  not  be  safe  here.  He  is 
feared  by  all.  We  women  would  all  have  to  go 
beyond  the  Caucasus." 

"You  know  of  his  dishonor,  Princess?"  Ahmed 
asks,  his  cheeks  burning. 

"Yes,  we  all  do!  His  secret  agents  and  spies 
swarm  from  sea  to  sea  now.  He  has  connections 
with  all  the  disaffected.  I  hear  General  Lazareff 
often  talk  of  him.  They  have  already  executed 
some  of  his  agents." 

Schamyl  cannot  linger  now.  When  the  conven 
tional  visit  has  been  already  far  prolonged,  he  takes 
his  departure. 

Was  it  a  faint  returning  pressure  of  the  hand  he 
felt,  as  he  said  adieu  to  the  Rose  of  Tiflis? 

Standing  in  the  rich  salon,  her  exquisitely 
moulded  form  draped  in  fleecy  cashmere  of  the 
rarest  Persian  looms ;  her  necklace  of  pearls,  no 
8 


1 14  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

whiter  than  the  swan-like  throat — a  dark-eyed  god 
dess  with  features  of  the  rarest  mould,  Maritza  de 
Deshkalin  is  as  fair  a  daughter  of  Pontus  as  ever 
graced  this  morning  land  of  loveliest  women.  In 
these  later  days,  a  truant  young  Greek  nymph— a 
dream  of  beauty. 

For  two  long  hours  next  day,  Ahmed  toils  with 
General  Melikoff  over  plans  and  maps.  He  receives 
a  list  of  telegraph  stations,  a  route  covering  several 
hundreds  of  miles,  and  instructions  too  important 
for  any  but  a  commander's  own  lips.  Schamyl 
hears  calmly  of  his  desperate  quest.  He  is  to  visit 
the  whole  frontier  secretly,  to  pursue  and  break  up 
knots  of  malcontents ;  a  warrant  under  the  Grand 
Duke's  seal  authorizes  him  to  use  any  garrisons  and 
moving  troops. 

,At  each  point  he  is  to  report  in  telegraphic 
cipher. 

Above  all,  the  capture  of  the  arch-traitor  Ghazee 
is  to  be  sought,  for  crafty  Melikoff  has  sounded  the 
dark  partnership  of  Ghazee  and  the  bloody  Kurdish 
Pacha  at  Erzeroum. 

"  I  will  watch  these  Abkhasians  on  the  Euxine.  I 
wish  you  to  make  sure  of  Daghestan  and  the  line 
from  Bayazid  and  Ardaban  to  Baku,"  Melikoff 
says  earnestly. 

"  There  is  no  reward  you  cannot  claim  of  the 
Emperor  if  you  prevent  a  general  revolt  in  Daghe 
stan  and  Circassia.  As  soon  as  the  armies  take 
the  field,  and  the  danger  is  past,  you  shall  have  a 
brigade  of  horse,  Prince,"  promises  Melikoff. 

"  Hold  yourself  in  readiness  to  leave  at  night 
within  two  or  three  days.  Lazareff  has  detailed 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  115 

two  sotnias  of  picked  Cossacks.  Every  man  is  a 
veteran.  You  will  have  a  double  set  of  officers  to 
each  troop.  No  one  must  know  of  your  errand !  " 

Schamyl  rejoices  that  his  old  retainer  is  now  able 
for  the  saddle.  For  Hassan  speaks  every  border 
dialect,  he  knows  every  nook  and  cranny  of  the 
Caucasus.  Can  the  prince  depend  on  his  loyalty  ? 

Schamyl  swears  the  old  sergeant,  on  the  sacred 
amulet,  to  bear  him  faith  in  the  campaign. 

Hassan  growls,  "I  will!  The  *  great  master' 
shed  my  blood  and  would  have  killed  you.  He  is 
accursed  now  !  a  son  of  Sheitan  !  " 

Revenge  is  the  one  unfailing  passion  of  the  war 
like  Circassian.  Hassan's  side  burns  with  his  knit 
ting  wound. 

Absolute  secrecy  is  enjoined  upon  Schamyl.  His 
heart  fires  him  to  go  once  more  to  the  presence  of 
the  gracious  woman  whose  lightest  touch  thrills  his 
bounding  pulses.  He  must  see  her  before  the  ball- 
before  the  summons.  For  "  boots  and  saddles " 
may  sound  any  instant.  Duty  yields  to  love. 

The  war  news  swells  on  the  rising  gale.  Ignatief 
is  even  now  departing  for  his  tour  of  the  great 
capitals;  the  Russian  Legation  at  Constantinople  is 
closed.  .  .  .  He  is  with  her  once  more. 

Seated  in  the  drawing-room  at  the  Lazareffs,  Ah 
med  tells  Maritza  that  he  may  depart  suddenly  on 
secret  duty. 

With  frankness  he  imparts  to  her  Platoff's  fore 
bodings,  the  White  Countess's  warning,  and  bids  her 
beware  of  dark  Ghazee's  snake-like  treachery. 

The  beautiful  dark  eyes  linger  tenderly  on  him. 
Her  voice  is  low  and  strangely  sweet. 


ii6  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

"  Prince  !  your  brother  is  not  my  friend.  I  know 
it.  Last  winter  " — she  checks  herself. 

Ghazee's  suit  was,  then,  unsuccessful.  His  heart 
bounds. 

"  I  am  an  orphan  ward  of  the  Emperor !  He 
would  never  permit  me  to  marry  a  Moslem." 

A  strange  light  shines  in  Ahmed's  eyes.  He 
takes  her  trembling  fair  hand  in  his  own. 

"  Princess,  I  leave  you  soon  !  Will  you  give  me 
a  little  token  that  you  will  not  forget  me  till  I 
return?  I  may  even  go  before  the  ball." 

Maritza  glances  at  Madame  Lazareff.  The  good 
lady  is  intent  upon  the  Revue  des  Deux  Mondes* 

Hastily  drawing  from  her  slender  finger  a  great 
pigeon  blood  ruby  ring,  she  drops  it  in  his  hand, 
and  whispers  : 

"  Wear  this  for  my  sake  !  " 

Their  eyes  meet.  In  all  the  splendid  depths  of 
her  dark  glances  he ,  can  read  the  shy  self-defence 
of  the  proud  girl's  nature.  She  would  not  be  too 
easily  won.  ...  A  princess  in  her  own  right ! 
The  chatelaine  of  these  storied  hills — a  daughter  of 
the  gods  ! 

"  I  will  guard  it  with  my  life  t'ill  I  come  back  to 
you.     I  shall  see  you  to-morrow." 
|  Faint  and  soft  as  the  chime  of  distant  bells,  her 
voice  repeats,  "  To-morrow — Prince  !  " 

As  he  rises  she  shows  him  a  face  whose  burning 
blushes  cannot  mislead  him.  A  rustle  of  her  gown 
—the  goddess  has  fled  ! 

Murmuring  a  few  commonplaces  to  Madame  la 
G£nerale,  Ahmed  drives  to  the  palace  in  a  happy 
unconsciousness  of  time  and  place. 


PRINCE    SCHAMYL  S    WOOING.  1 1/ 

For  Love's  dainty  sceptre  has  touched  him.  The 
Czar's  soldier  once,  he  is  only  now  a  slave  in  the  ser 
vice  of  Queen  Maritza! 


CHAPTER    VI. 

MISSING.— UNDER  THE  SHADOWS   OF  ARARAT.— 
A  MOTHER'S  MEMORY. 

PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  head  tosses  on  his  pillow  all 
night.  In  his  dreams,  Ghazee  drags  the  beloved 
Maritza  down  into  the  black  waters  of  the  Kura. 
He  cannot  hold  her  back.  .  .  .  Agony  haunts 
his  sleep.  With  a  bound  Ahmed  springs  to  his 
feet. 

Those  hideous  visions  of  the  night  fade  away. 
Morning  already  !  His  orderly  is  knocking. 

"Highness!  This  is  immediate!"  The  soldier 
salutes. 

He  tears  open  Melikoff  s  hasty  scrawl. 

"  Report  at  orderly  hour.      Haste  ! 

MELIKOFF." 

Schamyl  despatches  a  Spartan  breakfast  ;  old 
Hassan  nimbly  assorts  the  camp  outfit. 

"  Ready  for  the  road."  Hassan  hobbles  away  to 
inspect  the  animals.  The  veteran  Moslem  is  good 
for  a  dozen  raids  yet. 

As  Loris  Melikoff  steps  into  his  orderly  room,  the 
staff  officer  announces: 

"  General,  Prince  Schamyl  in  waiting  !  " 

A  satisfied  gleam  crosses  the  Armenian's  cunning 
eyes.  He  is  like  the  white  general — Skobeleff.  His 


n8  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

staff  officers  must  appear  like  sprites,  and  move 
with  lightning  speed. 

MelikofT  nods  when  Schamyl  enters ;  the  Grand 
Duke  Michael  is  also  at  the  table. 

Their  faces  are  grave. 

"  Major,"  MelikofT  growls,  "  our  signal  officers  re 
port  many  beacon  fires  on  the  mountains  to  the 
north  last  night. 

"  Prince  Tchavachavadze,  lord  of  the  Abkhasians, 
reports  the  signals  also  on  the  mountains  behind  us 
here.  He  is  already  miles  away  toward  Poti  and  the 
Black  Sea. 

"  We  fear  some  dangerous  uprising.  I  have  sent 
your  squadron  of  Cossacks  off  at  daylight. 

"  One  officer  waits  to  guide  you  out  at  nightfall. 

"  His  Highness  wishes  to  keep  your  mission  a 
secret.  You  will  leave  without  a  word  to  any  one. 
You  have  your  orders." 

Melikoff  twists  a  cigarette  carelessly. 

The  Grand  Duke  Michael  adds  a  few  words  : 

tl  Prince  Schamyl,  the  Emperor  has  given  a  divis 
ion  of  cavalry  to  Tchavachavadze.  He^is  the  chief 
of  all  the  Eastern  tribes.  The  Princess  Maritza  is 
firmly  attached  to  our  gracious  Empress.  She  is 
the  last  of  the  line  of  Georgia.  You  are  now  the 
chief  of  Circassia  and  Daghestan." 

Schamyl  bows  in  silence. 

"  We  know  well  the  importance  of  tradition  with 
these  uncertain  Asiatics.  Count  Ignatief  writes  me 
that  in  Thibet,  in  Turkestan,  in  his  years  in  China, 
he  has  met  no  nature  as  proud  and  defiant  as  your 
own  people." 

Schamyl's  eager  eyes  rest  on  the  Grand   Duke. 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  119 

He  knows  what  the  prince  of  the  house  of  Romanoff 
would  not  dare  to  say.  His  heart  beats  wildly. 

"  I  send  you,  Schamyl,  with  a  stainless  sword  to 
hold  your  old  altars  and  castles  for  the  Emperor." 

The  Grand  Duke  detaches  a  great  white  cross  from 
his  bosom.  Handing  it  to  the  young  man,  he  says 
simply : 

"  My  Brother  gave  it  to  me.  Go  now,  my  young 
friend  !  " 

The  subtle  flattery  of  this  great  prince  sets  the 
soldier's  heart  on  fire. 

There  are  tears  in  Ahmed's  eyes  as  he  salutes. 

Melikoff  says,  simply:  "  Send  back  a  man  to  tell 
me  of  your  first  march.  Telegraph  direct  for  orders 
from  every  garrison." 

Noblesse  oblige.  Ahmed's  cheeks  burn  as  he 
affixes  the  white  cross  to  his  breast.  It  may  not  be 
hidden,  but  he  has  not  fairly  earned  it  yet. 

As  he  passes  out  of  the  ante-room,  thronged  with 
grizzled  veterans,  there  is  a  hum  of  envy  and  aston 
ishment.  These  princely  youngsters  rise  so  easily ! 

Reaching  his  quarters,  Schamyl  spends  a  restless 
hour  in  writing  Platoff  and  in  arranging  his  simple 
kit  for  the  scout.  His  troops  are  away.  He  chafes 
for  the  road  now.  The  music  floating  in  from  the 
square,  where  hardy  battalions  are  exercising,  re 
minds  him  of  that  grand  ball  which  he  cannot 
attend. 

And  Maritza  is  queen  of  hearts  now  ! 

He  dares  not  visit  her  again  so  soon.  Les  con 
venances  ! 

At  dusk  his  horse's  head  will  be  turned  toward 
Daghestan.  He  may  not  come  back.  There  are 


120  PRINCE   SCHAMYLS    WOOING. 

swords  as  sharp  as  his  own  in  those  rugged  hills. 
Shall  he  send  a  message — a  letter?  Whom  can  he 
trust  ? 

As  the  lover  ponders,  Hassan  gravely  enters.  All 
is  ready. 

With  inspiration,  Schamyl  pens  a  brief  note. 

"  Will  the  Princess  Maritza  ride  this  afternoon  to  the  band 
practice  ?  " 

Hastily  sealing  it,  he  bids  Hassan  mount  and  bear 
it  to  the  Lazareff  mansion. 

Schamyl  tells  him  to  ask  for  the  Princess  Maritza 
herself. 

Clattering  hoofs  tell  him  the  rider  is  on  his  way. 
Schamyl  paces  the  room  uneasily.  From  the  win 
dows  he  can  see  the  wooded  hills,  rising  four  thou 
sand  feet  in  air,  where  last  night  the  fires  of  treason 
glittered. 

There  already  lurk  the  dastards  in  the  rear  who 
would  give  up  their  own  native  land  to  the  Turk ! 

Ahmed  remembers  grimly  that  his  own  father  was 
a  Moslem  of  the  Moslems  ;  that  a  hundred  and  fifty 
thousand  Circassians  are  even  now,  after  two  hun 
dred  years  of  warfare,  fanatical  sons  of  the  Crescent, 
though  clutched  in  the  never  relaxing  grasp  of  the 
Eagle  of  the  North  ! 

Ghazee,  the  renegade,  now  wears  the  fez  and  tur 
ban  of  a  Pacha  in  the  Turkish  ranks  ! 

With  a  rush  Hassan's  charger  reins  up  in  the 
court.  Love's  messenger  appears.  His  eyes  are 
shining. 

"  I  saw  the  lovely  daughter  of  the  morning, 
Highness!"  Hassan  announces,  handing  a  billet  to 
the  Guardsman. 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  121 

The  note  is  brief,  but  precious. 

"  We  ride  at  four  this  afternoon,  in  the  square.      Au  revoir. 

MARITZA." 

Ahmed  thanks  his  lucky  stars  that  the  general 
order  has  been  given  for  pleasure  parties  not  to 
cross  the  line  of  sentinels  on  the  town  limits.  All 
the  beauties  of  Tiflis  ride  in  the  great  square. 

For  the  black-hearted  Kurds  are  abroad  !  Con 
cealed  by  day  (thieving  and  plundering  only  at 
night),  their  zone  of  rapine  and  murder  unites  the 
two  opposing  lines  already. 

"  The  day  star  spoke  in  my  own  language," 
proudly  exclaims  old  Hassan. 

"  She  is  more  fair  than  the  moonlight  on  the 
waters!  "  The  old  messenger's  heart  is  captured  by 
her  native  graces. 

He  is  gone. 

Ahmed  smiles  at  this  poetical  outburst  of  the 
cut-throat  descendant  of  Hafiz. 

Hassan's  words  haunt  him.  "  She  spoke  to  me 
in  my  own  language  !  " 

Ah !  General  Melikoff,  love  will  ever  find  the 
way  !  Your  orders  will  not  be  literally  disobeyed  ! 

When  the  line  of  carriages  sweeps  around  the 
square  in  the  afternoon,  Prince  Schamyl  slowly  rides 
past  the  procession.  His  new  charger  is  a  towering 
son  of  night.  A  white  star  blazes  in  his  forehead. 
The  Circassian  silver  trappings  deck  the  noble  steed, 
whose  princely  rider's  face  is  haughty  and  un 
moved. 

All  eyes  gaze  on  the  tall  youth,  whose  heavy 
Tcherkess  sabre  swings  easily  from  his  jewelled  belt. 
There's  not  a  lovely  Russian  "  aristocrate  "  in  the 


122  PRINCE    SCHAMYL'S   WOOING. 

line  who  does  not  glance  kindly  on  the  man  whose 
white  grand  cross  tells  the  story  of  the  honors 
of  the  morning. 

The  mysterious  freemasonry  of  garrison  gossip 
has  already  spread  abroad  the  singular  distinction 
of  the  Prince  of  Daghestan. 

Far  up  the  line  Schamyl  recognizes  the  livery  of 
the  Lazareffs.  Lovers'  eyes  are  keen  ! 

Dreamy,  delicious  music  floats  over  the  parade. 
Far  away  the  course  of  the  Kura  divides  the  great 
valley  beyond,  on  whose  farther  crest  the  Moslem 
foes  are  even  now  mustering.  His  own  brother 
waits  to  cross  swords  with  him  there  ! 

With  the  easy  grace  of  a  Bayard,  Schamyl  reins 
up  his  fretting  horse  beside  the  carriage. 

"  Place  aux  grandes  dames !  "  The  prince  can 
hardly  trust  his  voice,  as  he  pays  an  homage  "  not 
altogether  guileless"  to  Madame  Lazareff — a  beauty 
yet,  a  reigning  belle  once  ! 

His  bow  to  the  young  ladies  brought  his  noble 
head  to  his  charger's  mane. 

Madame  la  Generate  smiles  as  she  notes  the  highly 
prized  decoration. 

"  Mon  Prince  !     Je  vous  en  felicite." 

These  moments  are  ages  to  Schamyl.  He  has 
now  a  fair  excuse  to  address  the  young  reigning 
beauties  of  Tiflis. 

His  French  and  Russian  sound  charmingly  to  the 
merry  Nina  and  the  bright  Tia. 

When  he  softly  speaks  to  Maritza,  it  is  in  the 
beloved  tongue  of  her  childhood. 

The  eagle-eyed  young  prince  knows  he  is  be 
loved.  For  she  has  said  it !  Schamyl  needs  not 


PRINCE   SCHAMYLS   WOOING.  123 

wait  for  the  seventh  heaven.  He  is  realizing  it  here 
on  earth. 

A  wary  glance  from  Madame  Lazareff  bids  him 
restrain  the  sparkling  eagerness  of  his  eyes.  Does 
she  suspect  their  secret  ? 

Even  duennas  know  the  language  of  love !  And, 
in  Russia,  an  emperor's  orphan  ward  is  sacred. 

Around  the  parade,  the  cortege  of  rank  and 
fashion  creeps.  These  blessed  moments  fly  all  too 
soon.  When  Madame  Lazareff  draws  her  Persian 
shawl  (a  prince's  ransom)  around  her,  for  the 
evening  chill  is  falling,  Schamyl  knows  the  Fates 
are  cutting  the  thread.  The  parting  moment  comes. 

Raising  his  astrakhan  shako  artlessly,  he  presses 
to  his  lips  the  blood-red  ruby  ring. 

Maritza  is  leaning  forward  slightly.  Her  glorious 
eyes  dwell  a  moment  on  him  with  a  tenderness 
which  thrills  to  his  bosom's  core. 

He  is  the  "  Prince  Charming "  who  has  come 
across  her  unvexed  girlhood  to  lead  her  "  over  the 
hills  and  far  away,"  out  into  the  fairy  land  of  love 
which  wraps  this  work-a-day  life  in  a  glamour  of 
enchantment. 

She  knows  he  cannot  grace  the  stately  ball  of 
the  Grand  Duke.  While  she  dances  there  her  lover 
will  be  far  on  his  way  to  the  robber-haunted  defiles 
of  Daghestan,  at  the  head  of  his  troops. 

With  courteous  salutation  he  greets  the  other 
ladies  ;  in  wheeling  his  charger,  he  brings  that  blood- 
red  ruby  ring  once  more  to  his  lips. 

Princess  Maritza  does  not  watch  how  grandly  his 
black  orloff  dashes  away,  for  there  are  shining 
mists  of  happy  tears  veiling  the  eyes  of  the  fairest 


124  PRINCE  SCHAMYL  S   WOOING. 

maid  in  Georgia.  The  dialogue  in  Georgian  puzzles 
Madame  Lazareff.  Maritza's  heart  goes  out  with 
him  on  the  dangerous  quest,  wherein  he  must  earn 
the  white  cross  already  given  by  the  Emperor's 
brother.  The  Czar  alone  can  give  away  her  hand. 

Princess  Maritza's  fluttering  heart  prisons  her  new 
secret,  as  the  carriage  rolls  along. 

Her  lover's  praises  are  sounding  in  her  ears. 
Schamyl  "  has  builded  more  wisely  than  he  knew  " 
in  his  Grandisonian  tenderness  of  manner  to 
Madame  Lazareff. 

The  bright  twin  stars,  Nina  and  Tia,  chatter  in 
their  heart-whole  glee.  They  can  freely  rally  Ma- 
ritza,  for  they  have  not  yet  tasted  the  elixir  of 
love. 

One  bright  star  hangs  over  the  high  northern 
hills,  when  Schamyl,  followed  by  Hassan,  dashes 
out  of  the  eastern  guard  gate  of  Tiflis.  His  horse's 
feet  sound  sharply  on  the  jagged  stones.  He  is 
musing,  dreaming  of  the  fair  girl  who  in  her  lonely 
room,  sitting  in  the  evening  shadows,  murmurs, 
"When  shall  I  see  him  again?" 

Four  trusty  Cossacks,  with  a  corporal,  are  waiting 
at  the  first  village.  They  left  with  the  packs  four 
hours  ago.  The  three  riders  join  them. 

Winding  'down  the  willow-screened  banks  of  the 
Kura,  his  escort  officer  at  his  side,  Schamyl  takes  his 
place  in  front  of  the  little  squad. 

The  mechanical  rise  and  fall  of  the  horses'  feet  on 
the  frosty  road  lulls  him.  His  heavy  hood  hides  his 
face.  Once  on  the  road,  Ahmed  is  a  soldier  again. 
From  these  wooded  bends  of  the  Kura  a  lurking 
band  of  Kurds  may  dash  out  at  any  moment. 


PRINCE   SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  125 

It  is  long  after  midnight  when  the  camp  of  the 
squadron  is  reached. 

Schamyl's  heart  bounds  as  he  sees  the  stern  riders, 
in  bivouac,  around  their  tethered  steeds. 

Sitting  by  the  camp-fire,  he  realizes  he  has  entered 
into  the  enjoyment  of  his  patrimony — the  empire  of 
the  sword  ! 

Examining  the  carefully  posted  sentinels,  with 
brief  directions  to  his  officers,  the  lover  throws  him 
self  down  to  dream  of  Maritza,  the  dark-eyed,  whose 
smile  gilds  even  the  darkness  of  the  chill  January 
night. 

He  has  indicated  a  star  on  the  Circassian's  dial. 
When  that  bright  spark  reaches  the  western  horizon, 
the  squadron  will  sweep  swiftly  toward  the  gloomy 
hills  hanging  over  Bayazid — the  outer  gates  of  Erze- 
roum. 

When  Hassan  rouses  Schamyl,  with  his  coffee,  the 
two  "  sotnias  "  are  in  arms.  Gathered  around  the 
camp-fire,  the  eight  officers  greet  their  young  com 
mander. 

Hassan  and  the  orderly  remain  with  the  guard 
squad  when  Schamyl's  breakfast  is  despatched.  In 
a  half-hour,  they  will  overtake  the  command,  with 
the  pack  animals. 

Sweet  is  the  sound  of  the  singing  bugle  as  the 
young  chief  rides  to  the  head  of  his  cavalcade. 

A  guide,  a  trusty  sergeant,  and  three  troopers  lead 
the  advance.  The  two  sotnias,  in  column,  tramp 
along,  the  hardy  horses  tossing  their  heads  in  the 
nipping  morning  air. 

As  the  sun  leaps  out  of  the  plains  of  Khorassan, 
Schamyl  surveys  his  bold  riders. 


126  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

Trim,  brawny  horsemen,  in  short  tunic  and  leather 
trousers,  a  warm  cloak  over  their  shoulders,  and 
wearing  rakish  sheepskin  caps,  they  are  the  pride  of 
Russia,  these  dare-devil  Tcherkess  swordsmen ! 

Schamyl  has  ordered  them  to  leave  their  lances 
behind.  With  a  Berdan  rifle  in  its  leather  case,  two 
pistols,  their  belt-daggers,  and  the  heavy  razor-edged 
Circassian  sword  swinging  noiselessly  in  its  wooden 
sheath,  they  are  armed  to  the  teeth. 

They  stride  along,  riding  easily,  with  knees  high 
drawn  up.  Their  neat-limbed  chargers  are  as  agile 
as  mountain  deer. 

Accustomed  to  govern  and  direct  themselves  i-n 
fight,  they  neither  give  nor  take  quarter  when  they 
meet  either  of  their  deadly  foes — the  thievish  Kurd 
or  lumbering  Bashi-bazouk. 

In  single  fight  they  mow  down  the  despised 
Turkish  cavalry,  or  pick  them  off  with  unerring  aim. 

Proud  are  the  Ataman  riders  that  the  Czarewitch 
is  the  titularly  lord  of  the  Don  Cossacks !  Mazep- 
pa's  mantle  descends  upon  the  eldest  son  of  the 
Romanoffs. 

It  is  to  the  uncorrupted  fidelity  of  these  war 
riors  that  the  sacred  body  of  the  Emperor  is  con 
fided.  They  are  the  inner  ring  around  the  imperial 
person. 

"  Preobajensky,"  "  Cuirassier,"  nay,  even  the 
white  "  Garde  a  Cheval,"  must  yield  in  personal  de 
votion  to  these  fierce  children  of  the  mountains  and 
steppes. 

Man  and  horse  (blended  in  a  double  unit)  camp, 
sleep,  eat,  and  play  together. 

The  faithful  steed  is  a  living  bulwark  as  he  drops 


PRINCE   SCHAMYL S    WOOING.  127 

at  a  signal,  his  rider  firing  over  him.  Swimming 
like  an  otter,  climbing  like  a  mountain  goat,  dog-like 
in  fidelity,  the  Cossack  horse  is  his  master's  greatest 
treasure. 

Along  their  line  the  magic  word  "  Schamyl  "  is 
whispered.  With  sparkling  eyes  they  follow  the 
tall  form  of  their  new  chief,  who  was  cradled  in  the 
arms  of  the  great  sultan  of  the  sword,  the  Imam  of 
Circassia.  Every  childhood  song,  every  wedding 
feast  harangue,  every  legend  of  this  wild,  bookless 
nation,  burns  with  praise  to  the  mighty  chieftain  of 
Gunib. 

It  is  his  princely  son  who  rides  at  their  head,  in 
the  flush  and  glory  of  young  manhood. 

Schamyl  communes  with  himself.  He  knows 
these  rolling  hills,  these  grand  woods,  these  defiles 
where  a  few  may  hold  a  host  at  bay. 

He  will  please  the  eagle-eyed  Melikoff.  When 
he  has  broken  his  next  camp,  sending  back  a  report 
as  ordered,  he  will  strike  boldly  across  the  broken 
mountains,  from  the  Kura  to  the  Araxes,  and  reach 
Erivan  (the  last  Russian  stronghold)  before  Baya- 
zid,  on  the  open  gorge  of  Erzeroum. 

On  this  lonely  way  he  will  surely  meet  any  wan 
dering  parties.  He  needs  no  map.  The  eagle  of 
the  Caucasus  finds  his  way  alone.  Each  boyish 
memory  is  a  treasure  now.  Then,  refitting,  he  will 
(by  the  mountain  defiles)  gain  great  Himri,  the 
birthplace  of  his  stern  father. 

If  Ghazee  is  stealing  along  the  lines,  his  spies  will 
be  busy  in  the  heart  of  Daghestan. 

Woe  to  that  traitor  if  he  meets  this  forlorn  hope 
now  sweeping  along  under  Ahmed  ! 


128  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

While  from  the  heavy  forest  the  small  animals 
flee  at  their  approach,  herds  of  deer  troop  over  the 
misty  meadows.  It  is  a  land  of  silence  and  savage 
beauty. 

At  noon  Ahmed  halts  his  squadron  beside  a 
sparkling  river. 

Throwing  himself  down  under  a  tree,  the  young 
major  communes  with  his  officers. 

While  Hassan  (who  scorns  that  another  should 
serve  his  master)  spreads  the  repast,  Schamyl 
exchanges  a  few  words  with  his  subordinates. 

An  old  gray-headed  captain  interests  him — a 
captain  at  fifty. 

"  You  have  served  here  ?  "  he  asks. 

"  I  know  this  region  well,  Prince  !  It  was  from 
these  very  mountains  your  father  dashed  down  in 
*  forty-eight,'  and  captured  our  Russian  Princess 
Orbelian,  the  general's  wife." 

Schamyl  eyes  the  bristling  peaks  with  interest. 

"  I  was  a  boy  soldier  then,  just  joined.  I  was 
cut  down  trying  to  save  the  princess.  I  lay  in  the 
forest,  unnoticed,  and  was  brought  in  by  the  rescue 
party."  The  old  captain  sighs. 

Ahmed's  memory  is  strangely  moved. 

"The  Princess  Orbelian!"  His  father's  noble 
captive.  He  wonders. 

"Tell  me  the  whole  story,"  he  directs.  When 
the  captain's  brief  recital  is  over,  Ahmed  remem 
bers  that  the  Russian  Government  gave  up,  in  later 
years,  his  captive  brother  Jamal  Eddin,  in  exchange 
for  the  Princess  of  Abkhasia  and  this  lovely  Prin 
cess  Orbelian. 

"  Ah,  Hassan  must  surely  remember  !  "    He  signals 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  129 

to  the  veteran  who  is  bearing  along  his  master's 
viands.  Speaking  in  the  tongue  of  his  youth,  he 
queries  : 

"  Hassan,  do  you  remember  the  Russian  Princess 
Orbelian?" 

The  veteran  drops  his  dishes,  open-eyed.  He 
mutters  wildly,  and  proceeds  to  recover  his  scattered 
charge. 

Schamyl  sharply  cries  :  "  Well,  can  you  speak  ?  " 

Hassan  turns  a  frightened  face  on  his  master. 

"  My  oath  !  The  great  sultan  !  No,  I  never  speak 
of  those  old  days  of  the  great  master.  May  Allah 
be  my  guide,  I  know  not!" 

When  the  cavalcade  sweeps  up  toward  the  spiral 
height,  from  whence  he  will  break  away  toward  En- 
van,  Schamyl  is  haunted  by  the  soldier's  story  as 
he  rides. 

"  The  Princess  Orbelian  !  "  He  questions  his  serv 
ant  again. 

Hassan's  obstinacy  foils  him.     He  will  not  speak. 

As  the  wind  sweeps  through  the  lonely  forests 
where  his  father's  voice  so  often  cheered  the  wild 
riders  onward  when  they  struck  the  Russian  foe,  Ah 
med's  boyhood  comes  back.  Somewhere,  in  yonder 
sparkling  mountain  ranges,  sleeps  the  gentle-eyed 
woman  whom  his  fancy,  born  of  an  unloved  boy 
hood,  paints  to  him  as  a  tender  mother  bending 
over  her  child.  t 

The  Princess  Orbelian !  She  was  seven  long 
years  in  great  Schamyl's  eyrie. 

The  reins  lie  idle  on  his  horse's  neck.  He  forgets 
even  the  star-eyed  Maritza  to  dream  of  the  dear 
unknown  (hidden  from  him  by  the  mists  of  buried 
9 


130  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

years),  whose  ears  never  lovingly  heard  him  say 
"  Mother." 

Chill  winds  whistle  over  the  rocky  ridges  at  sun 
down,  as  Schamyl  pickets  his  weary  horses  on  the 
southern  slope  of  lofty  Mount  Alacez,  three  days 
later. 

Hassan's  knowledge  of  the  old  Tcherkess  trails 
enables  the  fiery  major  to  gain  unperceived  this 
point,  from  which  he  can  strike  quickly  in  any 
direction. 

Schamyl  is  happy  at  his  good  progress  and  unper 
ceived  march  as  he  sweeps  his  glass  over  the  won 
derful  panorama.  In  sending  back  his  courier  from 
the  first  day's  bivouac,  he  has  asked  permission  to 
leave  a  half  sotnia,  "en  perdu,"  in  the  groves  of 
Alacez.  All  is  quiet  so  far  here. 

From  his  vantage  ground  to  the  north  great 
"  Goomri "  hangs  over  the  Araxes  in  warlike  defi 
ance  to  the  Turk.  It  is  the  Russian  frontier  strong 
hold. 

His  nimble  warriors  have  climbed  out  of  the  Kara 
valley  ;  below  him,  to  the  southwest,  lies  the  great 
Araxes  River,  whose  northern  branch,  the  "  Arpa 
Tchai,"  is  the  hostile  frontier. 

Due  west  one  hundred  and  fifty  miles,  Kars 
frowns  under  the  Kara  Dagh  (only  thirty  miles 
from  Goomri).  It  is  the  goal  of  General  Loris  Mel- 
ikoff.  His  marshal's  baton  awaits  him  there.  He 
has  the  Grand  Duke's  pledge. 

Southwest  the  road  sweeps  up  the  valley  of  the 
broad  Araxes  toward  populous  Erzeroum,  in  its 
amphitheatre  of  cannon-crested  hills. 

Due  south  rises  the  awful  mass  of  Ararat,  unde- 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  131 

filed  by  man's  polluting  foot,  and  a  little  to  the 
west  is  the  city  of  Bayazid,  the  third  precious  mor 
sel  for  the  maw  of  the  Russian. 

There,  at  Ararat,  a  man  in  a  run  of  fifty  yards 
can  wander  in  Persia,  Turkey,  or  Russia.  It  is  the 
one  giant  corner  post  of  Asia  Minor. 

Schamyl  sighs  to  think  that  though  his  keen  eye 
can  sweep  over  the  whole  valley  of  the  Arpa  Tchai 
and  the  Araxes  (fenced  across  by  the  great  ridges 
of  the  Kara  Dagh  and  Agra  Dagh),  it  will  take 
months  to  make  that  bloody  march. 

Fiery  though  Melikoff  be,  fast  though  his  riders 
press  to  the  front,  it  may  take  a  year's  time,  and  a 
hundred  thousand  lives,  to  grasp  in  the  iron  hand 
of  Muscovy  those  three  priceless  jewels  glittering 
under  his  feet — Kars,  Bayazid,  and  Erzeroum. 

Yet  the  White  Czar  must  have  them  to  fence, 
with  their  massy  citadels,  the  flanks  of  his  great 
strategic  railway  from  Batoum  to  Baku.  Batoum 
yet  flies  the  crescent  and  star  of  the  Ottoman.  It 
is  the  fourth  jewel  of  the  quadilateral. 

Eastward,  lying  under  Russia's  claws,  are  Merv, 
Khiva,  Turkestan,*  Cashmere,  and  Khuldja. 

Not  in  vain  did  wily  Nicolas  Ignatief  toil  for 
four  years  in  the  Asiatic  Bureau  of  the  Ministry  of 
the  Interior.  His  fertile  brain  has  caught  the 
enormous  value  of  the  Baku  oil  regions.  The  "  sa 
cred  wells  "  of  the  fire  worshipper  will  furnish  fuel 
for  hundreds  of  locomotives  on  the  railroads  of 
treeless  Asia  and  its  barren  steppes. 

Steamers,  by  the  fifties,  on  the  swift  Volga  and 
the  Caspian  Sea,  will  be  propelled  by  these  liquid 
riches  wasted  for  long  centuries. 


132  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

Ignatief's  keen  mind  has  discerned  the  royal  road 
of  advance  to  Central  Asia.  The  conqueror's  sword 
must  now  carve  out  a  line  to  keep  the  Turk  at  bay 
on  the  Euphrates. 

Morning  mists  scarce  roll  away  before  Schamyl's 
pickets  are  sweeping  (in  dispersed  knots)  away  on 
their  searching  raids. 

So  far  hut  and  village,  forest  and  dell,  are  unpro- 
faned  by  the  Kurdish  struggle. 

One  platoon  is  to  thread  the  border  as  far  as 
"  Goomri,"  reporting  to  him  at  Erivan  by  telegraph 
from  that  fort. 

Another  will  search,  in  loose  order,  the  wooded 
plains  as  far  as  the  junction  of  the  Araxes  and  Arpa 
Tchai,  rallying  at  Erivan. 

With  the  other  forces,  Schamyl  spreads  a  line  ten 
miles  broad,  flanking  the  main  road  to  Erivan. 
There  he  will  be  able  to  telegraph  Melikoff  that  the 
southern  border  is  clear  of  marauders. 

Strong  bodies  of  horse  are  already  picketed  on 
the  frontier  from  Ararat  to  the  Caspian.  With  the 
Abkhasian  cavalry  on  the  Black  Sea  flank,  and 
the  Caspian  troops  to  his  left,  Scliamyl's  duty  is  to 
guard  inviolate  the  roads  to  Daghestan  and  his 
own  wild  Circassia. 

Ahmed  leaves  the  trusty  old  captain  on  Mount 
Alacez  with  orders  to  send  each  day  a  rider  in  to 
Erivan. 

They  will  pass  a  daily  vidette,  returning  from  the 
stronghold,  where  that  unrivalled  tactician  Tergu- 
kassoff  is  ready  to  seize  Bayazid  the  moment  that 
"protocols  "and  "Vienna  conferences"  are  aban 
doned. 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  133 

Schamyl  has  been  over  a  week  in  the  saddle  when 
his  jaded  troopers  ride  into  Erivan. 

To  report  to  the  fort  major  and  despatch  sup 
plies  to  his  troop  left  at  Mount  Alacez,  is  his  first 
charge.  To  report  himself  \.o  the  commanding  gen 
eral  and  inform  General  Melikoff  of  his  dispositions, 
is  the  second  duty. 

Bravely  has  Hassan,  the  mystic  retainer,  kept  his 
sturdy  roan  at  Schamyl's  heels.  The  old  swords 
man  seems  all  the  better  for  his  blood-letting.  In 
vain  has  Schamyl  urged  him  to  speak  of  the  Prin 
cess  Orbelian. 

"  The  great  sultan  sealed  my  lips  when  he  died. 
The  curse  of  Allah  rests  on  the  babbler." 

Leaving  his  second  in  command  to  arrange  the 
details  of  rationing  his  outposts  and  quartering  his 
men,  he  lightly  gallops  over  to  the  headquarters  of 
the  division  commander. 

As  he  swings  himself  out  of  the  saddle,  a  staff 
officer  hurriedly  accosts  him. 

"  You  are  to  see  the  General  without  delay, 
Prince.  Important  orders  await  you  !  "  he  says, 
with  an  anxious  face. 

In  five  minutes  Schamyl  has  made  his  brief  report 
to  Tergukassoff.  What  new  anxiety  ?  The  chief's 
brow  is  gloomy.  He  tosses  a  telegraphic  order  to 
Ahmed.  It  is  personally  signed  by  Loris  Melikoff. 

Schamyl  reads  its  few  stern  lines.  He  utters  a 
cry  like  a  wounded  lion.  The  fatal  words  are 
burned  into  his  brain.  It  is  three  days  old  ! 

"COMMANDING  GENERAL  AT  ERIVAN  : 

"  Send  Major  Schamyl  with  all  his  force  to  scout  the  Arpa  River 
banks  from  Parnault  and  Assar,  to  meet  our  own  force  descending 


134  PRINCE   SCHAMYL'S   WOOING. 

from  Goomri.  Princess  Maritza  and  Lady  Fatima  were  carried 
away  last  night  from  Lazareff's  gardens.  Kurds  supposed  to  have 
descended  river.  Send  him  to  report  back  from  Goomri. 

"  MELIKOFF." 

The  general  growls  out :  "  I  have  sent  out  already 
four  companies  of  Cossacks  to  scout  from  Ararat  to 
Assar.  They  left  in  an  hour  after  the  news  came. 
If  you  are  able,  you  had  better  strike  now  for  Assar, 
with  a  fresh  half  sotnia.  I'll  send  an  officer  to  lead 
your  own  men  down  to  the  river  at  Kizilkule  to 
meet  you  there.  I  will  station  another  company 
on  the  mountain.  Can  you  start  back  now?" 

Schamyrs  eyes  are  blazing.  He  has  already  for 
gotten  his  fatigue.  For  Maritza's  sake,  anything ! 

"  As  soon  as  I  get  fresh  horses,  and  my  troops  are 
ready,  I  will  go,  General,"  the  prince  gasps. 

"  Good  !  "  growls  Tergukassoff.  "  I  should  judge 
that  Melikoff  is  not  very  happy  over  this.  That 
young  princess  is  the  head  of  the  Georgians  now. 
These  sneaking  Turkish  spies  may  have  cajoled  her 
away.  It's  a  bad  time.  But  what  did  they  want  to 
steal  the  Kurdish  girl  for  also?  " 

Ahmed  is  about  to  speak.  He  masters  himself. 
A  spectre  of  Ghazee  rises  before  him. 

"  Sit  down  and  write  your  report  to  Melikoff.  I 
will  send  the  despatch  on  at  once.  I  approve  all 
you  have  done,  Schamyl.  You  have  made  a  good 
march!" 

Ahmed  blunders  over  his  official  lines,  for  his 
heart  sinks  within  him.  Maritza,  the  day-star,  now 
>n  the  power  of  the  black-hearted  Kurds,  who  spare 
neither  the  living  nor  the  dead  !  His  brain  is  on  fire. 

The  general  reads  Schamyl's  despatch. 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  135 

Touching  his  bell  for  his  adjutant,  he  simply  says : 
"  Carte  blanche  for  Major  Schamyl.  He  goes  at 
once  on  '  special  service.'  Look  here,  Pashkoff, 
don't  forget  to  give  him  a  good  dinner." 

The  busy  commander  kindly  dismisses  the  restless 
young  prince,  who  joins  Pashkoff  in  the  staff  head 
quarters. 

"  Schamyl,"  says  Pashkoff,  an  old  Petersburg  com 
rade,  "  I  have  a  telegram  here  from  Gronow  to  you. 
While  I  get  your  dinner  up,  read  it,  and  tell  me  what 
you  want." 

Fresh  horses  and  refreshment  for  his  orderly  and 
Hassan  are  Ahmed's  first  thoughts.  He  tears  open 
Gronow's  telegram. 

"  DEAR  SCHAMYL  :  Madame  Lazareff  frantic  !  Princess  was  sur 
prised  walking  in  garden  on  the  evening  of  the  ball ;  undoubtedly  car 
ried  off  in  boat,  with  Fatima.  Object  unknown.  Ransom,  perhaps. 
Kurds  must  have  been  hidden  along  river  bank.  Official  telegrams 
from  Turkish  commanders.  Nothing  known  by  them.  Some  say 
Princess  joins  Turkish  party.  Will  write  you  fully  at  Goomri.  Answer 
this.  I  suspect  treachery  ! 

"GRONOW." 

Ahmed's  whirling  brain  will  only  permit  him  to  tel 
egraph  Gronow : 

"  Despatch  received.  Start  in  half  hour  along  river  to  Goomri. 
Troops  in  the  field  everywhere.  Greeting. 

"  SCHAMYL." 

Pashkoff  with  difficulty  detains  the  young  chief 
of  the  Caucasus  long  enough  to  swallow  a  few  mor 
sels  and  drain  a  bottle  of  Burgundy.  Before  the 
first  star  sparkles  over  blue  Ararat,  Prince  Schamyl, 
on  Pashkoff' s  best  charger,  is  spurring  ahead  of  his 
fresh  Cossacks 


I36 

Hassan  strains  the  pace  of  his  big  roan  to  keep 
up  with  Ahmed. 

As  they  ride,  they  commune  in  the  language  of 
Daghestan. 

Hassan  has  played  the  border  guerilla  in  his 
younger  years  and  is  a  master  of  every  Kurdish  arti 
fice.  The  rugged  henchman  smacks  his  lips,  for  he 
knows  the  pack  mule,  urged  along  with  the  com 
mand,  is  loaded  from  Pashkoffs  generous  larder. 

Their  own  command  will  cut  over  to  Assar  and  be 
fresh  to  meet  them  there  in  two  days.  Schamyl 
rides  out  into  the  black  night  to  glean  from  the  vil 
lagers  or  friends  along  the  river  some  news  of  the 
kidnapping  party. 

It  is  between  Goomri  and  Assar  that  the  enemy 
must  have  crossed  from  the  Kura  to  the  Arpa.  It  is 
the  road  to  Erzeroum,  the  home  of  Fatima,  also  to 
Kars.  That  hideous  night-dream  comes  back! 

Great  God  !     This  is  Ghazee's  work ! 


CHAPTER    VII. 

TCHERKESS      AGAINST      KURD. — AN      OLD      FRIEND 
WITH   A   NEW    NAME. 

ONWARD,  in  the  darkness  of  the  lonely  roads, 
Schamyl  threads  the  path  toward  the  meeting  of 
the  Arpa  Tchai  and  the  Araxes. 

A  quick  road  trot  keeps  the  column  awake.  Scha- 
myl's  black  follows  the  three  shadowy  forms  in 
advance.  His  heart  is  on  fire  !  On,  on  to  the 
rescue  ! 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  137 

They  keep  always  within  sight  of  the  Cossack 
guide. 

Turning  now  and  then,  Ahmed  sees  the  spectral 
forms  of  his  platoon. 

Hassan  takes  his  cat-naps  in  the  saddle. 

Before  daylight  the  drowsy  ferry-man  at  Choban- 
kara  passes  them  quickly  over  the  north  branch  of 
the  Araxes  in  two  squads.  He  has  seen  no  wander 
ing  Kurds.  It  is  too  near  Erivan.  Tergukassoff  is 
a  vigilant  soldier  and  knows  his  outpost  duty. 

A  long  halt  at  noon,  at  the  main  crossing  of  the 
Araxes,  enables  Schamyl  to  snatch  a  rest,  while  the 
hardy  Cossack  ponies  nip  the  tender  shooting  leaves 
and  munch  daintily  their  grain. 

When  Hassan  rouses  him,  with  his  coffee,  the 
exhausted  leader  rubs  his  eyes.  Blessed  sleep  has 
brought  oblivion  of  that  gnawing  pain  at  his  heart. 

Yes,  he  is  here  in  the  heart  of  Anatolia.  His  wild 
horsemen  are  ready  for  the  road.  Far  to  the  south 
the  savage  crests  of  the  Jula  Gadek  fence  off  the 
Turks,  with  their  snowy  barriers. 

Springing  again  into  the  saddle,  Schamyl  rides 
on  to  Kullink.  If  he  reaches  that  town  at  night,  he 
will  be  ninety  miles  from  Erivan. 

There  is  a  military  telegraph  there.  He  can 
despatch  to  the  commanders  of  the  four  river  gar 
risons  between  Assar  and  the  main  fortress  of 
Goomri. 

As  he  rides  with  bowed  head,  in  silence,  Ahmed 
studies  the  situation. 

It  would  be  impossible  to  transport  two  ladies  in 
litter  or  carriage  past  Goomri  over  the  border  with 
out  suspicion.  The  river  is  closely  picketed  from 


138  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

Goomri  down  to  Assar  by  the  troops  of  both 
armies. 

Any  floating  boat  would  be  fired  on  from  both 
sides,  if  suspicious. 

Besides,  at  this  season,  the  travel  must  be  slow, 
with  two  young  girls  unused  to  fatigue. 

The  air  is  sharp  enough  even  now  to  try  the 
patience  of  even  a  Circassian  scout. 

Down  the  wild  Kura  (by  boat),  concealing  them 
selves  by  day,  floating  with  the  five-mile  current  at 
night — a  hundred  miles — would  be  the  easiest  way 
to  escape  the  Russian  outposts  of  Tiflis.  Then 
across  the  valley,  travelling  at  night,  hiding  by  day, 
to  the  Arpa  Tchai  at  Kizilkule.  From  there  the 
rushing*  current  would  swiftly  take  a  well-guided 
party  to  the  Kurdish  villages  of  the  impregnable 
Kara  Dagh. 

When  rested,  a  dash  of  three  days  would  suffice 
to  reach  Erzeroum. 

Some  one  has  planned  this  raid  who  knows  every 
foot  of  Anatolia!  Is  it  the  devil  Ghazee  ? 

The  weary  prince  groans  as  he  rides  along.  A 
thousand  desperate  expedients  flit  over  his  mind. 
A  quest  to  Erzeroum  !  Useless  !  He  cannot  dis 
guise  his  face  and  form.  For  Kurdish  eyes  are  the 
sharpest  in  the  world. 

Where  Fatima  appears,  there  will  be  news  of  the 
lost  Rose  of  Tiflis !  The  Kurds  will  never  harm 
Fatima,  Ismail's  favorite  daughter.  She  is  their 
"  queen  "  ! 

What  if  the  wily  old  scoundrel  Ismail  made  his 
daughter  play  a  deep  part  in  this  scheme?  He 
will  dissemble  and  lie.  Shut  up  in  the  Pacha's 


PRINCE   SCHAMYLS   WOOING.  139 

household,  Fatima  cannot  be  reached.  Even  were 
she,  Schamyl  remembers  her  snaky  words  :  "  I  hate 
the  Giaour  and  the  Russ !  " 

His  sinking  heart  tells  him  Maritza  will  not  be 
taken  to  Erzeroum. 

Though  the  Kurds  are  "  called  out,"  though 
their  lances  bristle  along  the  Arpa  Tchai,  war  is 
not  yet  declared.  Intercourse  is  indeed^  cut  off, 
but  there  is  no  means  of  using  military  force  in  this 
chase. 

His  instructions  are  to  bring  on  no  conflict,  save 
with  some  armed  party  of  raiders.  Spies  he  may 
arrest  and  bring  in. 

It  is  ten  o'clock  when  the  column  straggles  into 
Kullink.  Schamyl  blesses  Tergukassoif  for  the 
plenary  order  given  him  by  the  adjutant. 

While  the  escort  officer  places  the  men  at  their 
ease  for  the  night,  Ahmed  is  at  the  telegraph. 
Despatch  after  despatch  forces  the  operator  to  pro 
test  vainly.  The  lover's  mind  is  too  quick  for  his 
fingers ! 

The  major  is  an  anxious  man  as  he  listens  to  the 
rattle  of  the  magic  key. 

Hassan  throws  Ahmed's  blanket  roll  down  on  a 
rude  couch  in  the  office.  Squatted  on  the  floor, 
he  smokes  a  la  Turque.  The  lesson  of  the 
bridge  is  enough  for  the  retainer.  While  Schamyl 
slumbers,  Hassan  fingers  his  sabre  or  feels  his 
heavy  Smith  &  Wesson  at  the  slightest  noise. 
He  is  "on  guard."  No  more  treachery!  The 
brief  answers  to  Schamyl  are  soon  read.  IJo 
news !  Every  scouting  party  reports  no  sign  of 
fugitives. 


140  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

Ordering  his  men  in  the  saddle  an  hour  before 
dawn,  Schamyl  forgets  all  his  woes  in  a  dreamless 
slumber.  His  own  and  only  love  blesses  his  dreams. 
By  noon  next  day  Kulpi  is  reached.  The  garrison 
commander  has  official  reports  urging  every  activity. 
Nothing  yet  ! 

Sending  a  dozen  men  to  ride  across  the  country 
to  Parnault  and  scout  the  river  bank  to  Assar,  the 
major  cheers  them  with  relief  there,  for  his  own 
men  will  await  him. 

Bending  to  the  right  (in  a  three  hours'  smart  trot), 
the  command  draws  up  at  the  Etat-Major  in  Assar. 
Crossing  the  Araxes,  Schamyl  learns  that  the  river 
front  is  now  swarming  with  the  irregular  Turkish 
cavalry  and  the  Kurdish  thieves. 

A  company  is  on  picket  at  the  ferry.  Their  officer 
tells  Schamyl  there  have  been  disturbances  the 
whole  week  along  the  lower  river. 

Prince  Schamyl  (seated  at  ease  with  the  colonel 
commanding  at  Assar)  finds  that  he  has  been  forced 
to  draw  in  his  outposts  along  the  river  to  prevent 
bringing  on  an  irregular  warfare. 

Schamyl  is  a  happy  man  when  he  sees  at  night 
fall  his  own  men  ride  in  from  Erivan  in  good  order. 
Tossing  his  head,  the  gallant  black  charger  is  ready 
for  his  master  once  more. 

A  telegram  announcing  his  platoon  up  the  river, 
in  rendezvous  at  Goomri,  is  answered  with  orders 
to  join  his  main  body  at  Kizilkule  from  the  moun 
tain. 

Long  and  late  Schamyl  discusses  the  grave  situa 
tion  with  the  colonel.  His  orders  are  imperative 
to  search  the  river  from  its  junction  to  Goomri, 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  141 

It  will  take  a  strong  force  to  move  there  with 
safety  now. 

The  cautious  colonel  hesitates  until  the  plans 
arrived  at  are  sanctioned  from  Erivan.  Schamyl 
displays  his  positive  order  from  Loris  Melikoff. 
Every  one  bustles  at  Melikoffs  beck  and  call. 

At  the  gray  of  dawn,  three  strong  companies  of 
picked  cavalry  wait  on  the  parade  for  the  prince. 
A  couple  of  light  mountain  "  galloper  "  guns  are 
also  ready  for  the  road. 

Tergukassoff's  despatch  sanctions  all  these  risks. 

The  post-commander  sends  a  steady  old  lieuten 
ant-colonel  to  bring  this  force  back  when  Schamyl 
reaches  his  own  troops  rallied  at  Kizilkule. 

Directing  the  main  body  due  north  to  the  great 
bend  at  the  foot  of  the  Kara  Dagh,  Schamyl  sends 
a  company  to  scout  the  river  bank.  They  will  join 
the  main  body  at  the  old  crossing  under  the  frown 
ing  peaks  where  the  Kurdish  robber  chiefs  still  hold 
their  mountain  eyries  in  the  very  teeth  of  the  Rus 
sian  garrison. 

It  is  late  in  the  afternoon  when  the  battalion  is 
abreast  of  the  point  of  the  Kara  Dagh. 

Born  with  the  border  chief's  instinct,  Ahmed 
leaves  the  main  road,  and  leading  his  silent  riders 
into  a  valley  (to  the  north)  he  bivouacs  the  men  in 
cover. 

A  half  company  in  rear  are  stretched  in  a  picket 
line  to  the  river,  with  orders  to  send  into  camp  the 
scouting  party  from  the  banks. 

Leaving  the  lieutenant-colonel  in  command,  Ah 
med,  riding  to  a  high  knoll,  sends  out  a  half  com 
pany  in  a  fan-like  chain  of  videttes  covering  five 


142  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

miles.  Riding  on  their  lines  (three  hundred  yards 
apart),  these  men  can  stop  any  wanderers  of  the 
night. 

Two  or  three  small  squads  occupy  salient  points, 
ready  to  gallop  to  the  sound  of  firing. 

Schamyl  knows  that  the  unusual  activity  along 
the  river  banks  may  drive  any  raiders  to  swing  low 
down  toward  the  Kara  Dagh. 

His  net  is  spread.  By  a  little  camp-fire,  hidden 
by  a  rocky  cleft,  Ahmed  listens  to  Hassan's  tales  of 
the  old  border  days  of  warfare. 

Sleep  comes  not  to  his  eyelids.  He  must  finish 
this  quest.  One  deserter  has  brought  a  stain  upon 
his  family  name.  To  endeavor  to  pierce  the  Turk 
ish  lines  in  search  of  Maritza  now  would  be  mad 
ness.  No  !  he  will  report  from  Goomri,  and  ask 
General  Melikoff  to  order  him  into  Tiflis.  Then, 
when  the  war  begins,  he  will  take  the  advance  and 
cut  his  way  to  where  his  darling  love  is  hidden  from 
him.  That  is  best. 

Bidding  Hassan  watch,  Schamyl  tries  to  sleep  a 
few  hours.  There  is  silence  in  the  camp.  Only  a 
charger's  neigh,  or  the  foot  of  a  sentinel  slipping  on 
the  grass,  disturbs  the  sleep  of  two  hundred  men. 
The  river  patrol  is  in.  All  quiet  on  its  low  banks. 

Schamyl  awakes  as  Hassan's  hand  is  slipped  over 
his  mouth.  The  old  man  motions  for  silence.  Spring 
ing  to  his  feet,  Ahmed  grasps  his  sabre  and  revolver. 

"  Come,  master,"  whispers  the  old  sergeant.  He 
climbs  a  little  knoll.  Pointing  to  a  few  flaming  points 
of  light  on  the  Kara  Dagh,  he  softly  says :  "  The 
Kurds  are  talking  to  their  friends." 

Prince  Schamyl  rubs  his  eyes.     These  are  surely 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  143 

stars  twinkling  over  the  crests  of  the  lofty  range. 
In  a  few  words  he  sneers  at  the  old  man's  suspi 
cions. 

u  They  are  on  the  peaks,  miles  apart  from  each 
other.  You  have  slept  four  hours.  /  crept  up  and 
watched  them.  They  never  move.  They  are  fires. 
The  Kurds  are  coming  back  from  this  side." 

It  is  even  so.  They  would  not  signal  if  their  men 
were  on  their  side  of  the  river. 

Lightly  as  a  mountain  deer,  Ahmed  springs  down 
the  knoll.  Awakening  the  officers,  they  return  ana 
join  Hassan,  who  stands  grimly  surveying  the  ene 
my's  lights. 

The  veteran  lieutenant-colonel  slowly  says  : 

"  It  wants  two  hours  of  day.  They  always  cross 
back  just  before  daylight.  They  are  either  signalling 
our  presence  or  warning  their  friends  up  the  river." 

"  Get  the  men  under  arms  in  half  an  hour,  colonel. 
We  will  be  ready  for  any  alarm." 

The  field  officer  rouses  his  adjutant.  In  ten  min 
utes  the  Cossacks  are  silently  moving  among  their 
horses.  Dark,  double  shadows  in  the  faint,  thin 
light  of  the  fading  stars  make  man  and  horse  take 
on  unearthly  forms. 

Hassan  stands  ready  with  the  noble  black  tugging 
at  his  rein  ;  his  own  horse  is  patient. 

The  Cossack's  witchery  has  conquered  him  already. 
He  points  his  fox-like  ears. 

Schamyl  drains  a  draught  of  PashkofFs  good 
brandy  from  his  flask. 

Ha  !  a  sharp,  snapping  shot  a  half  mile  away.  Half 
his  men  are  already  in  their  saddles.  Another, 
another  !  It  is  now  the  heavy  ring  of  the  Berdans. 


144  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

A  faint  sound  of  distant  yells  floats  on  the  silent 
night.  Shot  follows  shot. 

The  men  are  motionless  as  rocks.  The  colonel  is 
at  his  side. 

"  Lead  one  troop  and  follow  me.  I  will  take  the 
first."  Springing  on  the  black,  whose  back  quivers 
under  him  as  the  high-blooded  charger  gathers  for  a 
bound,  Schamyl  calls  out  as  he  whirls  to  the  front  : 
"  Only  the  sword  ;  no  firing  till  orders  !  "  A  guide  and 
fierce  Hassan  range  alongside  of  the  young  prince, 
whose  first  field  is  this  one  under  the  black  shadows 
of  the  Kara  Dagh. 

Leading  his  men  steadily,  he  rides  down  into  a 
long  valley,  at  the  head  of  which  confused  firing  and 
yells  prove  that  the  Kurds  have  broken  his  thin  picket 
lines  and  are  hastening  toward  the  river.  On  for 
Maritza  !  His  heart  thirsts  for  vengeance. 

Behind  him,  the  cold  daylight  begins  to  streak  the 
eastern  skies.  The  sloping  valley  stretches  two 
miles  to  the  ford,  unuer  cover  of  the  overhanging 
cliffs  across  the  river. 

A  regular  ringing  crack  of  rifles  tells  Ahmed  his 
pickets  are  following  the  main  body  of  the  raiders, 
and  teasing  them. 

Schamyl  raises  his  sword.  The  column  halts. 
Five  minutes  now  to  breathe  the  horses  and  men. 
The  colonel  rides  up. 

The  young  leader  falters  not. 

No  ;  the  light  of  battle  flashes  in  the  dark  eyes  of 
Ahmed.  Revenge  for  Maritza  ! 

"  Colonel,  send  half  a  company  to  cut  them  off 
from  the  river  and  open  a  rifle  fire.  You  follow  with 
the  rest  of  your  sotnia,  and  charge  them  home  with 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  145 

the  sword,  /will  attack  them  here  in  flank.  Wait 
my  signal." 

It  is  high  time !  Seven  hundred  yards  away  a 
band  of  scattered  horsemen  are  pricking  toward  the 
river,  in  wild  confusion. 

Schamyl  waves  his  sword,  the  rifle  platoon  dashes 
down  the  slope,  racing  for  the  bank. 

Leisurely  the  old  colonel  leads  his  half  company 
down,  at  a  slow  trot.  Every  bright  blade  is  out. 
The  excited  men  see  their  hereditary  enemies. 
Only  the  Sioux  and  Pawnee  can  close  in  as  deadly  a 
grapple  as  Tcherkessand  Kurd.  War  to  the  knife  ! 

Quarter  !  It  is  an  idle  by-word.  Mercy  is  for 
gotten  !  Leaning  forward,  his  "  chaska  "  double- 
knotted  to  his  wrist,  Ahmed  settles  his  shoulder 
revolver-string,  and  watches  for  the  main  body.  He 
wheels  his  men  into  a  loose  line. 

There  they  come  !  Breaking  out  of  the  under 
brush,  pack  animals  are  dashing  along.  A  mass  of 
yelling  riders  crowds  down  the  valley.  Several 
hundreds  press  along  in  the  mad  race  for  life. 

Old  Hassan's  blade  is  bare ! 

Schamyl  presses  the  panting  sides  of  the  black. 
Like  a  whirlwind  he  dashes  down  the  slope.  His 
last  sharp  order  to  the  company  leaders  is  to  follow 
the  mass  and  charge  through  it,  wheeling  and  riding 
back. 

Three  minutes  after,  with  a  wild  u  Hurrah  !  "  the 
Tcherkess  strike  the  turbaned  invaders. 

In  the  front,  the  ring  of  the  Berdans  knells  the 
death  of  the  foremost  fugitives. 

Hassan  is  hard  by  Schamyl,  as  the  fleet  black 
tears  his  way  through  the  frightened  huddle. 


146  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

Schamyl  sees  a  huge  rider  in  his  front.  Some 
thing  flashes.  It  is  a  long  flintlock  pistol.  Drop 
ping  his  point,  he  feels  through  his  heavy  blade  the 
sickening  yielding  of  soft  flesh.  He  is  ten  yards 
away  as  the  Kurd  drops  from  his  saddle.  His  hands 
are  wet  with  warm  blood.  The  tiger  in  him  is  loose  ! 
It  is  a  mad  five  minutes  of  frantic  struggle. 

He  strikes  for  Maritza ! 

Encumbered  with  their  lances  and  long,  useless 
guns,  exhausted  and  breathless,  the  Kurds,  wrapped 
in  floating  draperies,  make  no  real  stand  against  the 
Tcherkess. 

Breaking  up  in  little  knots  over  the  plain,  they 
now  straggle  toward  the  river. 

Revolvers  begin  to  ring  out  where  a  resolute  few 
couch  their  slender  lances,  as  Schamyl's  troopers 
pour  in  a  deadly  fire. 

Whirling  down  the  valley,  pursuer  and  pursued 
near  the  river.  The  Kurds  fight  now  like  demons, 
for  life. 

Followed  by  Hassan,  Schamyl  charges  on  the 
heavier  knots  of  fugitives,  leading  the  wild-eyed 
Cossacks  in  their  dashes  at  the  strongest  clusters. 

He  is  sick  of  this  slaughter.  Over  the' valley  the 
sunlight  steals.  The  heavy  blades  glitter  as  they 
rise  and  fall. 

A  scattered  train  of  the  dead  lies  along  the  half 
mile  of  the  flight. 

Prince  Ahmed  casts  the  eye  of  a  leader  on  the 
river  bank.  It  is  lined  with  his  advance  guard, 
whose  Berdans  are  pouring  in  a  deadly  fire. 

The  "  rally  "  has  been  sounded  by  his  bugler.  By 
sheer  dint  of  survivorship,  a  frantic  mass  of  fifty  to 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  147 

seventy  Moslems  plunge  into  the  long  ripples  of  the 
swimming  ford  of  the  "  Arpa." 

As  his  men  coolly  pick  off  these  tired  swimmers 
in  the  stream,  a  useless  hail  of  spent  balls  falls 
from  the  rocks  of  the  Kara  Dagh,  opposite. 

They  are  swarming  now  with  hostile  Kurds. 
The  river  resounds  with  their  frantic  yells ! 

All  too  feeble  are  the  old  carabines  of  the  wild 
hill  tribes.  The  balls  fall  short. 

Yet  their  numbers  are  imposing.  Prudence  re 
turns  to  Schamyl.  Sounding  again  the  "  rally,"  he 
draws  up  all  who  will  obey  the  call,  in  two  forma 
tions,  a  hundred  yards  from  the  bank. 

The  colonel  rides  up  to  him  with  dripping 
sword. 

"Take  charge  and  watch  the  river  now.  Send 
down  and  stop  all  useless  fire  across  the  stream. 
For  ammunition  is  precious  ;  the  tribes  may  attempt 
to  revenge  the  surprise."  Ahmed  screams  his  orders. 

Rattling  down  the  slope,  the  light  guns  and  the 
camp  reserve  join  the  two  rallying  sotnias. 

Schamyl  sends  out  a  sergeant  and  ten  men  to  col 
lect  his  scattered  troopers  and  bring  in  the  riderless 
horses. 

Dashing  around  the  field,  with  dragging  bridles, 
the  Kurdish  ponies  are  loaded  with  plunder,  or 
buried  under  the  huge  peaked  saddles  of  the  enemy. 

Schamyl's  pickets,  are  leisurely  riding,  in  loose 
order,  down  the  valley.  Now  and  then  the  crack  of 
a  revolver  or  a  sabre  flash  tells  of  the  coup  de  grace 
given  to  some  foe,  wounded  yet  living,  or  else 
hunted,  unhurt,  from  a  covert,  to  die  in  mad  flight. 

Scattered  plunder  covers  the  path   of  the  sword. 


148  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

With  unscrupulous  readiness  the  practical  Tcherkess 
are  already  looting  the  dead. 

Black  browed  and  fierce,  with  drooping  mustaches 
and  tufted  crown,  the  Kurds  lie  stiffened  in  every 
repulsive  attitude  of  the  battle-field. 

Picking  his  way  along,  the  noble  black  throws 
high  his  head  in  air  on  nearing  the  clumps  of  the 
dead.  He  scents  the  blood  and  trembles  as  he 
bends  his  royal  head  away. 

Despatching  a  flanking  squad  to  watch  the  river 
above  and  below  the  bend  (from  the  heights),  Ah 
med  rides  over  his  first  victorious  field.  He  has 
lost  but  three  killed  and  a  few  wounded. 

His  eye  recognizes  the  path  of  his  mad  charge 
down  the  hill.  The  piles  of  dead  begin  there.  The 
trampled  earth,  spurned  by  the  charger's  feet,  shows 
the  frantic  rush  of  that  r§ce  for  life  in  the  dam. 

Yes!  There,  great  among  his  fellows  in  death, 
lies  the  brawny  Turk  who  fell  beneath  his  own 
thrust  in  the  charge. 

A  hundred  and  seventy  Kurds  lie  silent  in  the 
half-mile  of  the  struggle.  Their  dead  are  scattered 
far  to  where  they  first  forced  the  picket  lines  to  the 
north. 

It  was  their  vain  belief  that  they  had  merely  en 
countered  a  passing  patrol  at  first. 

Schamyl,  in  calmer  mood  now,  is  revolted  at  the 
awful  work  of  the  Circassian  ".  chaska."  He  rejoins 
his  main  body  and  finds  a  dozen  or  more  straggling 
prisoners. 

These  he  sends  Hassan  to  question  in  their  own 
tongue.  A  courier  is  spurring  already  back  to 
Assar  to  report  the  smiting  of  the  borderers. 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  149 

Though  war  is  not  yet  declared,  no  formal  orders 
are  needed.  Tcherkess  and  Kurd  are  never  at 
peace.  Anybody  of  the  enemy  on  the  Russian  side 
is  fair  game  for  the  Cossack,  whether  they  be  sol 
diery  or  only  predatory  thieves. 

Scattered  along  the  fringes  of  the  woods,  the  Cos 
sacks  are  lighting  their  cooking  fires.  The  handy 
plunder  of  the  foe  enriches  their  larders. 

Directing  his  field  officer  to  send  out  a  detail  and 
bring  the  arms  and  plunder  in,  Schamyl  occupies  a 
high  knoll  from  whence  he  can  view  the  whole  river 
bank. 

The  horses  are  grazing  alternately,  with  saddles 
on,  a  strong  herd  guard  in  charge  of  them — one 
company  ready  for  action. 

The  two  rifle  guns  command  the  ford.  Schamyl 
does  not  wish  to  open  fire  across  the  Arpa  Tchai 
unless  forced  to  by  a  counter  attack. 

The  prisoners,  bound  securely,  are  passed  in  re 
view  before  the  Prince  of  the  Caucasus.  Sullen, 
low-browed  brutes  are  they,  in  the  main.  Among 
them  is  a  poor  wretch  who  howls  his  innocence,  in 
Russian. 

Calling  up  his  officers,  Schamyl  seeks  to  see  if 
any  of  them  know  of  him. 

"  His  huts,  a  few  miles  above  the  bend,  were 
burned  and  plundered  by  the  Kurds,  and  two  or 
three  of  his  companions  killed.  It  is  four  hours' 
march  away." 

"  Keep  that  man  with  us,"  Schamyl  orders.  He 
says,  "  We  will  march  by  your  place.  If  you  have 
lied,  we  will  shoot  you  and  leave  you  in  the  road 
for  the  wolves  !  " 


150  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

The  man  solemnly  protests  his  truthfulness. 

"  We  shall  see!"  says  Schamyl,  grimly.  "Col 
onel,"  he  directs,  "  send  these  prisoners  over  to 
Assar,  to  your  commander,  with  a  sergeant's  squad 
to  drive  in  all  the  captured  horses  and  collect  the 
arms." 

The  old  field  officer  nods  assent.  He  grumbles  : 
"  You  may  as  well  shoot  them  here,  as  there  !  Eri- 
van  orders  are  to  execute  them  forthwith." 

"  I  am  no  butcher  !  I  am  a  soldier,"  coldly  says 
Schamyl. 

Yes !  by  the  token  of  his  blood-stained  blade  and 
signal  victory,  the  young  eagle  has  fleshed  his  talons 
now. 

As  he  despatches  a  mid-day  repast,  he  waits  for 
the  marshalling  of  the  command. 

They  must  hasten  up  the  winding  Arpa,  for  it  is 
two  days'  march  to  Kizilkule.  He  burns  to  report 
his  combat  to  General  Melikoff.  One  blow  for 
Russia  !  The  first ! 

An  officer  from  the  river  picket  dashes  up, 
mounted. 

"  Highness,  a  body  of  regular  Turkish  cavalry  and 
a  white  flag  are  at  the  head  of  the  ford.  What  are 
your  orders  ?  " 

Schamyl  sends  his  old  field  officer,  with  one  gun 
and  the  company  on  duty,  to  take  post  on  the  bank 
and  cover  the  crossing  of  an  officer  with  a  white 
flag,  who  will  meet  the  enemy's  flag  at  the  rapids 
and  report  the  object. 

No  treachery  for  him.  He  calls  for  his  horse — 
men  to  follow.  The  sound  of  wild  outcries  from 
the  knot  of  prisoners  diverts  him  now. 


PRINCE   SCHAMYLS   WOOING.  151 

The  Russian  captive,  whose  hands  have  been 
loosened,  is  trying  to  throttle  a  hang-dog-looking 
Kurd,  who  essays  vainly  to  protect  himself. 

"Ah!  Villain!  Son  of  a  dog !  You  butchered 
my  wife  !  You  came  in  the  boat,  you  devil !  " 

Schamyl  is  curious.  "  A  boat  !  What  boat  ? 
Explain !  "  he  sternly  commands,  as  the  man  is 
wrenched  away  from  his  victim. 

"  Highness  !  "  he  cries,  falling  on  his  knees,  "  my 
life  be  on  my  head  if  I  lie  !  Four  nights  ago  a  boat 
with  a  party  of  Kurds  came  down  the  river  in  the 
night.  I  have  lived  in  peace  and  long  traded  over 
the  stream.  My  brothers  and  their  wives  lived  with 
me. 

"  The  boat  party  all  landed,  for  they  knew  my 
huts.  The  party  were  from  up  the  river,  and  had 
a  lady  with  them.  She  was  cold  and  sick.  They 
made  us  serve  them.  My  wife  fed  the  stranger — a 
veiled  Moslem. 

"  I  feared  them  not.  After  daybreak  they  were 
warm  and  rested.  The  men  all  went  to  the  boat 
with  the  woman.  They  pushed  across  the  stream. 
Some  went  away  with  the  lady.  I  saw  horses  ready. 
Five  or  six  came  back  with  the  boatman.  I  liked 
it  not  !  We  tried  to  flee,  and  then  to  fight.  My 
poor  old  wife  was  killed.  The  other  women  were 
carried  away.  All  my  brothers  slain.  Me  they  took 
away  to  guide  them  back  from  this  last  raid.  This 
devil  here  was  one  !  The  other  hill  soldiers  came 
down  from  the  Kara  Dagh.  They  burnt  my  house  ! 
Let  me  kill  this  beast !  " 

Schamyl's  brow  grows  black.  He  is  a  true  Cir 
cassian.  He  cries: 


152  PRINCE    SCHAMYL  S   WOOING. 

"Keep  that  man  with  us.  Send  the  rest  off  to 
Assar. — If  your  story  is  true,  you  shall  kill  him  on 
your  own  hearth-stone." 

Revenge  for  blood  is  the  first  commandment  in 
Daghestan. 

Schamyl  gallops  swiftly  to  the  bank  where  the 
white  flag  waves.  He  unslings  his  glasses. 

Surely  they  are  regular  Turkish  cavalry,  in  order. 
He  instantly  summons  his  whole  force  and  the  other 
gun  to  move  up,  in  support,  leaving  only  the  camp 
guard  on  the  field.  He  may  have  a  serious  engage 
ment. 

His  second  in  command  reports  the  return  mes 
sage. 

The  Turkish  commander  wishes  to  confer  in  per 
son  with  the  commanding  officer.  He  begs  per 
mission  for  a  party  of  Kurds  to  pass  unarmed  and 
carry  away  their  dead. 

"  I  will  see  him  !  "  cries  Ahmed.  He  may  learn 
here  of  Maritza.  If  she  has  joined  the  Turks,  it  will 
be  noised  abroad  with  much  flourish.  May  God 
grant  it ! 

Riding  into  the  stream,  with  his  bugler  carrying 
a  white  pennon  (on  a  captured  spear),  Schamyl 
meets  in  mid-stream  the  officer,  who  is  similarly 
guided. 

The  troops  of  both  watch  the  meeting. 

With  a  start  Schamyl  cries : 

"  Suleiman,  my  friend  !  " 

"  Prince,  I  am  now  Captain  Mehemed  Pacha,"  re 
plies  his  late  guest  at  the  Uhlan  mess.  "  How  did 
you  come  here  ?  " 

Suleiman  is  astounded, 


PRINCE    SCHAMYL  S   WOOING.  153 

"  By  the  same  path  of  duty  which  led  you,"  is 
Ahmed's  softened  reply.  "  Ride  over  with  me,  with 
a  couple  of  your  officers." 

In  a  few  moments  two  dark-eyed  wearers  of  the 
fez  salute  the  bold  Circassian. 

Riding  up  to  a  knoll,  in  full  view  of  the  troops  on 
either  side,  Schamyl  asks  his  second  officer  to  join 
him. 

He  may  not  confer  alone,  even  with  a  friendly 
enemy. 

In  five  minutes  the  business  is  despatched. 
Schamyl  agrees  to  withdraw  his  command  to  the 
heights  to  the  west  and  allow  some  unarmed  villa 
gers  to  cross  and  bear  away  the  bodies  of  the 
slain. 

"  I  care  not  for  this  carrion.  These  Kurds  are  only 
thieves.  My  orders  are  to  watch  the  river,"  says 
Suleiman.  "  These  robbers  crossed  before  my 
arrival." 

In  a  half-hour  a  hundred  swarthy  wretches  are 
bearing  the  Kurdish  slain  to  the  banks.  Their 
women  wail  loudly  at  the  other  shore. 

Suleiman  agrees  to  leave  the  other  bank  with  his 
force  at  once. 

Ahmed  eagerly  asks  if  Suleiman  came  down  from 
Erzeroum. 

"  I  did  not,  Prince.  I  have  moved  down  the  in 
terior  valley  from  Kars,  and  have  been  scouting  for 
three  weeks  along  the  river  hills." 

"  Did  you  meet  any  parties  on  your  road  who 
passed  up  from  here  ?  " 

His  heart  beats.  Shall  he  tell  him  of  the  boat 
party?  Duty  forbids. 


154  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING, 

"Only  a  few  horsemen  convoying  the  Lady  Fa- 
tima  to  her  father  at  Erzeroum." 

"  Was  she  alone?"  Ahmed  queries,  as  he  hides 
his  anxious  face  by  swinging  his  steed. 

"  Yes ;  she  was  in  a  mule  litter.  There  was  no 
other  woman  in  the  party.  Ah,  her  father  is  a  rare 
old  scoundrel !" 

Schamyl  fears  lest  some  straggling  shot  may  em 
broil  the  horsemen  lining  the  river  banks.  He  says, 
with  a  glance  of  old-time  friendship  : 

"  Captain,  we  must  part.  I  hope,  if  we  meet  in 
the  field,  you  will  remember  that  it  is  duty  alone 
divides  us.  I  shall  be  on  Melikoff's  staff." 

Captain  Mehemed  rejoins  with  pride:  "  I  will  be 
with  Mukhtar  Pacha.  I  would  not  serve  under  the 
old  Vali  Ismail.  He  is  a  thief  and  coward  !  " 

Schamyl  rides  down  to  the  river  with  Suleiman. 
As  they  ford  the  waters  at  the  parting,  Schamyl 
whispers:  "  Where  is  Ghazee  ?  " 

"  He  is  at  Kars,  Prince,"  Suleiman  sadly  answers. 
He  knows  the  dark  gulf  of  crime  between  the 
brothers. 

"  Suleiman,"  Schamyl  says,  "  if  I  can  serve  you  in 
any  proper  way,  write  me  to  the  Etat-Major  at 
Goomri." 

Suleiman  grasps  his  hand.  "  Old  Abdallah,  the 
jewel  merchant  in  the  bazar  at  Goomri,  will  con 
vey  a  letter  to  me  any  time.  Write  me  if  I  can  do 
anything,  for  I  fear  we  will  have  war  in  a  few  weeks. 
May  Allah  guide  and  guard  you  ! " 

They  clasp  hands  in  a  soldier's  farewell.  With 
rare  politeness  Suleiman  moves  his  men  a  few  miles 
parallel  on  the  Turkish  bank,  as  Schamyl's  column 


PRINCE   SCHAMYL S   WOOING.  155 

marches,  led  by  the  prisoner  to  the  plundered 
huts. 

Schamyl  orders  the  two  Cossacks  leading  the  cap 
tive  Kurd  to  keep  him  at  the  head  of  the  line.  As 
night  approaches,  the  advance  halts  around  the  ruins 
of  the  poor  prisoner's  house.  It  is  desolate  and 
burned. 

His  tale  is  too  true,  for,  as  the  troops  draw  up,  two 
half-famished  wretches  crawl  out  of  the  bushes.  They 
are  the  survivors  of  the  dwellers  at  the  little  river 
station.  One  of  them  is  well  known  to  the  guide. 

Schamyl  examines  the  crumbled  ruins.  The  fugi 
tives  have  dragged  the  bodies  of  the  slain  into  the 
bushes.  Schamyl  directs  a  few  men  to  cover  them 
with  the  half-frozen  sand.  He  will  not  leave  his 
command  here,  exposed  to  a  dash  from  the  other 
side.  Night  is  falling  fast.  The  men  need  rest. 

"  Bring  up  that  Kurd,"  he  commands.  He  has 
ordered  food  and  a  flask  of  vodki  to  be  thrown  to  the 
starving  sufferers,  who  feared  the  return  of  the  invad 
ers  and  hid  in  the  thickets. 

As  the  Moslem  is  dragged  forward,  he  loses  heart. 

He  cries,  "Amaun!  Amaun  !  "  and  besides,  howl 
ing  for  quarter,  frantically  insists  he  will  tell  all.  Has 
san,  in  his  border  jargon,  interprets  the  Kurd's  plea. 

"  Stay  !  "  orders  Schamyl.  "  Send  a  couple  of  the 
guard  here."  They  dismount  and  approach,  with 
their  pistols  in  hand. 

"  Hassan,  tell  him  if  he  does  not  instantly  tell  us 
about  the  Lady  Fatima,  his  brains  will  be  blown  out 
at  once." 

The  frightened  wretch  volubly  describes  how,  led 
by  two  men  of  higher  station,  the  party  of  twenty 


156  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

Kurds  lay  concealed  a  week  in  the  river  forests  in 
front  of  Tiflis. 

One  of  the  men  stole  into  Tiflis  as  a  jewel  pedler 
and  communicated  with. the  Lady  Fatima.  A  dozen 
of  the  raiders  brought  the  two  ladies  to  the  boat 
at  nightfall.  The  Russky  princess  was  bound  and 
gagged.  Down  the  "  Kura,"  and  over  the  hills  to 
the  "  Arpa  Tchai,"  they  safely  fled.  The  "  Princess 
of  the  Russkys  "  was  afterward  well  treated.  She 
mourned  unceasingly,  but  the  Lady  Fatima  was 
cheerful. 

Schamyl's  heart  is  about  to  burst  its  bonds. 

"  And  where  is  she  now  ?  "  he  hoarsely  demands. 

"  She  was  taken  to  Kars  by  the  Alam  road.  The 
man  Omar  Effendi  said  she  was  worth  a  thousand 
purses  in  Kars  for  the  great  Pacha  Ghazee.  It  is 
five  days  since  she  left  the  river  below  Kizilkule, 
where  a  carriage  and  a  squad  of  zaphtiehs  were  in 
waiting.  She  was  a  beauty  fit  for  the  Padisha's 
harem." 

Schamyl's  face  grows  harder  than  flint.  He  orders 
the  commander  to  lead  the  troops  on.  There  is  a 
good  forest,  with  water  and  shelter  on  high  ground, 
four  miles  farther. 

The  hardy  victors  of  the  morning  fight  file  by, 
with  pride  in  their  dashing  leader.  A  lieutenant 
and  the  rear  platoon  alone  wait. 

Schamyl  speaks,  in  Russian,  to  the  refugee  : 

"  You  and  your  friends  can  follow  my  men  into 
camp.  I  will  take  you  up  to  Kizilkuie,  and  you 
shall  be  well  treated.  I  le'ave  you  this  man." 
Making  a  sign  to  his  escort,  he  rides  slowly  away, 
leaving  Hassan  watching  the  howling  murderer. 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  157 

As  he  gains  fifty  yards,  he  must  turn  his  head. 
There  are  three  struggling  forms  around  an  awful 
shapeless  thing  lying  prone  on  the  ashes  of  that 
plundered  home. 

Hassan  rejoins  his  master  in  a  few  minutes.  The 
released  prisoner  is  running  at  his  stirrup.  The  other 
waifs  follow  at  a  dog  trot.  As  Schamyl  halts  to 
question  Hassan,  the  houseless  wanderer  hands 
back  old  Hassan's  belt  dagger,  which  seems  to  have 
fallen  to  the  ground ;  or  had  he  loaned  it  ? 

Prince  Schamyl  asks  no  questions.  The  dead 
Kurd  is  left  alone,  with  his  staring  eyes  upturned 
to  the  darkening  heavens,  ft>  be  food  for  the  wolves. 

In  an  hour  the  victors  are  bivouacked  in  comfort. 
Blazing  fires  shed  their  genial  glow.  A  dozen  re 
captured  kine  have  been  slain,  and  their  carcasses 
loaded  on  Kurdish  ponies.  It  is  a  camp  feast. 
While  the  keen-eyed  sentinels  and  strong  outlying 
pickets  watch  the  lines,  and  the  herd  guards  move 
gently  among  the  hobbled  steeds,  the  troopers  sleep. 

Schamyl,  wrapped  in  his  cloak,  gazes  intb  the 
watchfire,  around  which  his  gallant  officers  are 
feasting.  His  stricken  heart  is  cold  as  stone  in  his 
bosom.  What  is  victory  ?  His  love  is  a  harem 
captive. 

Maritza,  queen  of  roses,  in  the  power  of  Ghazee 
at  Kars !  Double-dyed,  damned  treason  of  the 
wild  girl  "  Fatima"  !  Haste  now  to  Kizilzule  and 
Goomri.  He  will  despatch  direct  to  General  Meli- 
koff.  He  will  reclaim  the  girl  of  the  Turkish  com 
mander. 

Mukhtar  Pacha  is  no  black  fiend,  but  a  high- 
souled  Osmanli. 


158  PRINCE   SCHAMYL'S   WOOING. 

*. 

Ah  !  Deadly  wiles  of  Ghazee  !  He  may  conceal 
the  Rose  of  Tiflis  and  deny  all  knowledge. 

As  for  Ismail  of  Erzeroum  and  his  daughter,  it 
were  idle  to  believe  their  latest  dying  word.  They 
are  haters  of  the  Russ  ! 

The  grand  white  stars  swinging  high  over  his  first 
battle-field  shine  unpityingly  on  Schamyl,  whose 
ruby  ring  speaks  sadly  of  the  vanished  Rose. 

He  falls  into  broken  dreams  of  her,  with  a  last 
oath  to  high  heaven,  that  even  behind  the  walls  of 
Kars  he  will  find  her  yet.  For  Ghazee  may  not 
dare  to  press  to  the  extreme  his  villany. 

The  Princess  of  Georgia  is  a  great  factor  in  the 
future  of  Armenia — even  in  captivity. 


CHAPTER   VIII. 
ABDALLAH'S  RUSE. — SCHAMYL'S  SPY  IN  KARS. 

Two  days  later  the  battalion  sweeps  proudly  into 
Kizilkule.  Schamyl  has  now  fathomed  the  mys 
tery. 

The  river  was  the  line  of  retreat.  Every  hut  on 
its  banks  has  been  examined.  Another  halting- 
place  was  found  where  the  Lady  Fatima  came 
alone  ashore.  Her  good-humored  chatter  with  the 
obsequious  escort  proved  the  pleasure  of  the  Kurd 
ish  princess  in  her  pretended  abduction.  But  the 
Rose  of  Tiflis  is  behind  the  walls  of  Kars. 

Schamyl  has  been  unable  to  control  Hassan. 
Since  the  fight  he  spends  his  leisure  in  sorting  a 
varied  loot,  secreted  in  his  strangely  swollen  saddle 
holsters  and  valise. 


PRINCE   SCHAMYL'S   WOOING.  159 

A  princely  shawl,  a  priceless  sword  (he  knows 
the  old  Damascus  mark),  a  string  or  so  of  pearls, 
and  rich  jewels  adorn  him.  A  remarkable  ameliora 
tion  in  the  splendor  of  his  horse  gear  also  proves 
that  Hassan  has  gleaned  the  red  fields  of  Bellona 
to  great  profit. 

Prince  Schamyl  thinks  that  his  own  sumpter  ani 
mal  looks  strangely  like  the  royal  bay  ridden  by  the 
Kurdish  leader  who  fell  under  his  sword. 

And  yet  the  work-a-day  animal  is  also  there,  plod 
ding  along  under  a  heavy  pack.  A  sudden  increase 
of  live  stock !  "  Hassan,"  the  prince  dryly  says, 
"  did  we  not  have  one  pack-horse  ?  " 

''Praise  be  to  Allah!"  replies  Hassan  the  un 
blushing.  u  We  now  have  two  !  " 

"  What  is  he  loaded  with  ?  " 

"  My  baggage,"  gravely  answers  Hassan.  "  My 
lord  rides  far*  I  need  many  things." 

Alas  for  Hassan's  conscience !  He  is  a  self- 
elected  general  heir  of  many  Kurds  who  are  "  not 
lost  but  gone  before."  Schamyl  abandons  this 
vain  curiosity. 

Hassan  makes  a  very  brave  appearance  at  Kizil- 
kule — a  cross  between  a  retired  pacha  and  a  wan 
dering  millionnaire  of  the  bazaar. 

Fit  henchman  for  a  Falstaff !  He  would  have 
been  a  worthy  member  of  General  Jim  Lane's  Kan 
sas  cavalry  regiment.  Nature  endows  him  with  the 
greed  of  a  New  York  alplerman  ! 

There  is  great  joy  in  Kizilkule  at  the  victory. 
Schamyl  finds,  at  this  outpost,  his  own  squadron 
reunited.  All  his  detachments  are  in. 

By  the  talking^vire,  he  reports  to  General  Meli- 


160  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

koff.  He  receives  orders  to  push  on  to  Goomri, 
and  there  take  the  road  to  Tiflis,  after  resting  and 
refitting  his  own  troopers. 

It  is  a  brave  sight  on  the  parade  at  Kizilkule 
when  the  Erzeroum  troops  defile  past  Schamyl's 
own  chafing  warriors,  who  envy  them  the  glory  of 
the  fight. 

They  are  homeward  bound  ;  a  strong  regiment 
with  four  guns  now  holds  the  "  Kurds'  crossing." 
The  Erivan  chief  is  awake  to  the  wants  of  the  hour. 

As  the  brigade  bands  sound  the  Emperor's  hymn, 
Schamyl  passes  his  own  Circassians  along  the  lines 
of  the  garrison  in  review  before  the  commanding 
general. 

Proudly  they  defile  at  the  walk  and  trot.  On 
the  third  passage,  there  is  but  a  tossing  sea  of 
steeds,  dashing  along  at  a  full  run.  The  Circas 
sians  are  hidden,  like  Comanches,  behind  their  ani 
mals.  As  they  gallop  by,  they  are  greeted  with  the 
plaudits  of  the  garrison  ladies. 

Evening  shadows  fall  on  Ahmed's  sturdy  troop 
ers,  thirty  miles  toward  Goomri,  where  stout  Gen 
eral  Komaroff  holds  that  enormous  river  fortress, 
ready  to  fall  upon  Kars  with  his  force.  His  horses 
and  crowded  troops  are  under  the  sweep  of  the 
bristling  guns  of  the  citadel.  Before  the  daylight 
gilds  the  Aladja  Dagh,  the  eager  steeds  are  snuff 
ing  the  morning  air. 

Hassan  lingers  at  the  town  of  Abduhraman, 
chaffering  for  the  supplies  dear  to  an  old  cam 
paigner. 

He  overtakes  Prince  Schamyl  with  a  rush. 

"  Highness,"  he  breathlessly   announces,  for   the 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  161 

command  is  well  past  the  town,  "  this  is  the  nearest 
crossing-point  for  Kars.  I  have  found  the  road  of 
the  day-star  you  seek.  Come  !  "  Ahmed  drives 
the  spurs  into- the  plunging  black.  In  'five  minutes, 
Schamyl  reins  up  beside  a  ferryman's  cottage.  A 
lank  Armenian  youth,  his  eyes  rolling  in  terror,  is 
pushed  forward. 

He  nervously  eyes  Ahmed's  revolver  as  he  talks. 

"  Last  week  I  was  at  the  ferry.  Late  at  night  a 
boat  came  down.  I  hailed  it.  A  stranger  gave  me 
two  gold  pieces  to  run  over  the  hills  to  Alam,  and 
bring  down  the  carriage  waiting  there  for  Omar 
Effendi.  I  reached  there  at  daybreak,  and  came 
with  it  to  the  great  rocks  on  the  Arpa,  below  Bai- 
rain'Kend.  There  I  waited  with  it  till  night,  and 
hailed  the  same  boat  on  the  river  at  the  rocks. 
Omar  Effendi,  who  gave  me  two  more  gold  pieces, 
got  in  the  carriage  with  a  lady,  who  was  fair  as  the 
stars  on  the  moonlit  river.  I  know  it,  for  she 
dropped  her  hood.  He  had  soldiers. 

"  I  knew  the  other  lady  in  the  boat  was  the  Prin 
cess  Fatima.  I  ferried  them  over  when  they  last 
went  to  Tiflis." 

"  And  the  boat  ?  "  Schamyl  demands. 

"  Went  down  the  river,"  the  frightened  boy 
answers,  "  with  the  other  lady.  They  passed  both 
the  forts  above  in  the  night." 

Schamyl  tosses  the  lad  a  gold  piece.  He  dashes 
up  the  river  road,  followed  by  Hassan. 

Long  that  night,  by  the  camp-fire,  the  eagle  of 
the  Caucasus  talks  with  his  sly  old  retainer. 

It  is  but  thirty  miles  from  Goomri  to  Kars.  Yet 
Schamyl  may  not  hope  to  traverse  it  in  months. 


1 62  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

As  he  thinks  of  his  pathway  up  the  river,  the 
words  of  Suleiman  return  to  him. 

"  Hassan,"  he  cries,  "  do  you  know  old  Abdallah, 
the  jewel  merchant  at  Goomri  ?  " 

"  A  wise  Hadji  ;  a  rich  Hadji.  He  has  jour 
neyed  to  the  holy  places."  Hassan  reverently 
uncovers,  bowing  to  the  east.  This  perfunctory 
reverence  is  like  the  genuflexion  of  the  Calabrian 
banditti,  and  equal  in  sanctity  to  the  pious  sign  of 
the  cross  made  before  the  Russian  burglar  will  dare 
to  break  a  lock — mechanical  devotion. 

"  How  long  have  you  known  him  ? "  Schamyl 
queries. 

"  Many  years,  my  lord.  In  his  day  he  brought 
pearls  from  Ormuz,  turquoises  from  Samarcand. 
I  know  he  was  trusted  by  the  *  great  master,'  your 
father." 

"  We  will  see  this  man  at  Goomri,"  concludes 
Schamyl,  as  he  closes  his  eyes. 

"  He  is  wise  and  powerful,"  answers  Hassan. 

A  thousand  twinkling  lights  surround  the  great 
border  fortress  of  Goomri  when  Schamyl  rides 
through  the  main  gate  in  the  shades  of  the  next 
evening. 

Crowded  one  on  the  other,  great  bodies  of  infan 
try,  cavalry,  and  artillery  crouch  under  the  frown 
ing  walls,  where  a  hundred  Krupp  guns  protect 
the  priceless  military  magazines  of  the  White 
Czar. 

Dismounting  at  Kpmaroffs  headquarters,  Schamyl 
is  soon  at  his  ease.  His  men  are  well  bestowed 
without  the  walls.  Hassan,  with  the  chargers 
housed,  makes  merry  in  the  courtyard. 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  163 

There  is  pride  in   Prince  Schamyl's  glance  when 
he  reads  the  despatches  waiting  him. 
Melikoff  says  briefly : 
"  Good  !    Report  here  at  once  with  your  command." 

The  Grand  Duke  Nicholas  deigns  to  send  a  spe- 
•cial  telegram. 

"Well  done,  my  faithful  Tcherkess  !  General  Tergukassoff  com 
mends  you.  I  renew  my  regards. 

"  NICHOLAS." 

Tearing  himself  away  from  the  merry  bumpers  of 
the  mess,  Ahmed  finds  the  fame  of  his  achievement 
has  run  on  beyond  him.  It  is  the  first  blood  of  the 
coming  campaign. 

Doubt  lingers  no  longer  as  to  a  bloody  war.  The 
Emperor  is  ready  to  leave  Petersburg.  Troops 
massed  in  Bessarabia  wait  but  the  word  to  cross  the 
Danube.  Melikoff  is  ready,  and  Ignatief  travels 
through  London,  Paris,  and  Berlin  wending  toward 
Vienna.  "  La  danse  va  commencer." 

"  What  can  I  do  for  you,  Prince  ?  "  heartily  queries 
Komaroff,  as  Schamyl  takes  his  leave. 

The  Circassian  proposes  to  sleep  in  three  days  at 
Tiflis.  He  has  a  boon  to  ask  of  Melikoff. 

Maritza's  fate  depends  upon  his  brain,  his  own 
loyal  heart,  and — his  sword. 

"General,  do  you  know  Abdallah  the  jeweller?" 
the  young  lover  respectfully  asks. 

"  Very  well.  He  is  our  best  agent  in  the  secret 
service  at  Kars,  Erzeroum,  and  Trebizond.  We 
permit  him  to  remain  here  and  guard  his  riches,  un 
touched  by  Pacha  or  grinding  Kaimakan.  He  is 
true  to  his  word,  able,  and  devoted  to  the  Czar." 


164  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

"  I  would  like  an  hour  with  him  on  my  private 
affairs,"  Schamyl  answers. 

Komaroff  seals  a  card  with  his  own  signet  ring. 

"  Show  him  that,  major.  If  you  want  anything 
more,  bring  him  to  me." 

The  latticed  second-story  windows  of  Abdallah's 
spacious  house  are  gayly  lit  up  as  Schamyl  and  Has-' 
san  loave  their  steeds  in  front  with  the  orderly.  A 
cross-legged  old  servitor  rises  and  answers  Hassan, 
who  beats  on  the  iron  barred  lower  door  with  his 
dagger-shaft. 

Sending  up  the  general's  card,  Schamyl  gazes  on 
the  dark  shop,  lit  only  by  a  swinging  cresset.  Here, 
the  crafty  Moslem  will  chaffer  over  a  five  rouble 
turquoise,  or  can  hobble  out  and  bring  bowls  of  dia 
monds,  pearls,  and  rubies  from  the  gnome-like  nooks 
of  his  masonry  vaults. 

A  wise  old  Turk  is  Abdallah.  At  this  calm  hour 
of  rest  he  disdains  not  the  peaceful  chibouque,  the 
forbidden  wine  of  the  Giaour,  or  the  blandishments 
of  those  docile  beauties  who  peer  slyly  through 
the  lattice  of  his  harem,  as  the  troops  pass.  - 

Abdallah  has  reached  the  comfortable  age  when 
a  gentlemanly  avarice  and  the  care  of  his  hard- 
earned  hoards  make  him  conservative.  He  prefers 
the  security  and  flowing  stream  of  Russian  gold  at 
Goomri  to  the  orthodox  life  of  a  subject  of  Abdul- 
Aziz.  It  is  safer. 

Grave  in  manner,  ripe  of  years,  he  keeps  his  net 
work  of  bazaar  agents  spread  all  over  Anatolia. 
Public  opinion  in  Turkey  is  made  by  the  babble  of 
the  marts. 

Abdallah    exchanges   his  carefully  culled    secret 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  165 

reports  for  the  minted  red  gold  of  Russia — an  in 
formation  bureau,  a  la  mode. 

A  well-fed  Armenian  Vicar  of  Bray  is  Abdallah. 
He  has  houses  at  Kars  and  Erzeroum  ;  at  Ardaban, 
Bayazid,  and  Trebizond  also  are  branch  depots  of 
his  political  exchange  and  jewel  business. 

Mighty  Mukhtar  Pacha,  soldier  and  governor, 
holding  Asia  Minor  for  the  Sultan,  might  well 
tremble  did  he  know  of  Tarnaieff's  little  dinners  of 
the  past  year  at  Erzeroum,  in  Abdallah's  walled 
mansion.  The  disguised  dragoman, 'over  the  spark 
ling  wine,  gained  whispered  secrets,  each  worth  a 
man's  life,  from  needy  Hassan  Bey,  the  Turkish 
citadel  commander.  Abdallah's  Turkish  guineas  paid 
Hassan  Bey  well  for  selling  the  plans  of  Erzeroum. 
Russia's  secret  service  money  rewarded  Abdallah. 

Now  the  Arpa  Tchai  is  soon  to  run  red  with 
blood.  Hassan  Bey  is  the  confidant  of  Mukhtar 
at  Kars.  There  are  more  plans  to  sell. 

The  great  Pacha  Mukhtar  forgets  that  old  saw, 
"  Like  father,  like  son  !  "  in  making  Hassan  his  con 
fidant. 

When  Paskiewitch  swept  through  Asia  Minor  in 
1828,  he  wisely  bought  the  fall  of  Varna  from  Has 
san  Bey's  Judas  father.  It  saved  his  troops. 

Abdallah's  flowing  beard  wags  gravely  as  he  scru 
tinizes  the  noble  Schamyl. 

In  an  inner  room,  hung  with  wondrous  shawls 
and  choicest  arms,  lit  by  crystal  lamps,  where  lovely 
slaves  bring  the  richest  wines  and  fragrant  Latakia, 
the  jewel  merchant  listens  to  Schamyl's  tale  of  hap 
less  love. 

Hassan,  the  swordsman,  sits  beyond  the  curtain. 


1 66  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

He  has  greeted  as  an  old  friend  the  great  mer 
chant. 

In  the  dialect  of  their  youth,  he  tells  Abdallah, 
Schamyl  is  now  the  black  eagle  of  the  Caucasus. 

When  coffee,  served  in  golden  cups,  follows  the 
wine,  Abdallah,  caressing  the  diamond  circled  black 
amber  head  of  his  narghileh,  slowly  answers  the  im 
patient  prince  : 

"  Son  of  the  great  sultan,  I  will  serve  you.  I 
knew  your  royal  father.  I  know  Ghazee,  the  man 
of  stone." 

Schamyl  winces. 

Abdallah  calmly  proceeds  : 

"  The  great  Ferik-Pacha  Melikoff  must  fight 
Mukhtar  to  the  death  in  the  valley  of  the  Arpa  be 
fore  any  siege.  But  the  Russian  eagle  will  fly  over 
Kars.  The  city  will  be  taken — Erzeroum  also.  It 
is  written  in  the  stars. 

"  Komaroff,  your  leader  here,  sends  me  his  signet 
for  you.  It  is  enough. 

"  Son  of  Schamyl,  I  will  tell  you  all.  We  have 
Osman  Bey  here  now,  who  knows  all  the  Prankish 
deviltry  of  war.  He  learned  it  in  Europe.  He  is 
the  right  eye  of  the  Russian  general  here.  It  was 
madness  for  the  Turks  to  drive  him  into  your  ser 
vice.  He  is  the  sworn  brother  of  Hassan  Bey,  who 
is  the  favorite  of  Mukhtar.  They  were  fellow  stu 
dents  in  Paris. 

"  Now,  in  my  house  in  Kars,  all  our  spies  are  safe. 
Hassan  protects  them  !  He  is  to  have  a  mountain 
of  gold  from  your  Czar  when  we  get  Kars  and 
Erzeroum. 

"  I  have  made  all  the  ways  smooth  to  send  news. 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  167 

For  your  people  may  not  go  and  come.  My  ser 
vants  have  the  eyes  of  the  serpent. 

"  I  will  send  your  man  into  Kars ;  he  can  watch 
over  the  Princess  Maritza,  if  she  is  there. 

"  But  I  would  not  try  to  rescue  her  till  the  city 
falls." 

"  Explain,  Abdallah  !  "  Schamyl  cries. 

"  Ghazee  Mohammed,  your  brother,  has  sent 
secret  proclamations  all  through  Daghestan  and 
Circassia,  that  a  holy  war  will  be  proclaimed. 

"  He  thinks  England  will  help  the  Turks.  He 
has  runners  everywhere,  bearing  messages  secretly. 
The  Turkish  government  has  given  him  a  brigade. 
He  will  try  to  raise  the  Circassians  with  his  friend 
Moussa  Pacha,  who  was  once  Colonel  '  Kondukoff,' 
you  know." 

Ahmed  is  impatient. 

"  Gently,  my  son  !  "  chides  Abdallah. 

"  Ghazee  makes  his  headquarters  now  at  Kars. 
He  thinks  he  will  see  the  Russians  driven  over  the 
Caucasus.  As  Prince  of  the  Tcherkess,  he  will  re 
main  here.  The  Abkasians  will  revolt.  If  he  should 
hold  and  espouse  the  Rose  of  Tiflis,  it  would  give 
him  all  the  rights  to  Georgia  and  Circassia." 

"  True,"  Schamyl  murmurs. 

"  He  will  treat  the  lady  well,  and  conceal  her  in 
Kars.  It  is  the  safest  place.  He  must  keep  in  good 
relations  with  Constantinople  to  become  the  Pacha 
Viceroy  of  Armenia  when  the  war  is  over.  He 
would  not  dare  to  maltreat  Princess  Maritza.  We 
will  find  her  through  Hassan  Bey. 

"  Now,  your  man  knows  every  border  language. 
Hassan  Bey  will  aid  him.  We  will  send  him  in  with 


168  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

some  countrymen.  He  can  be  a  camel-driver.  He 
speaks  Persian." 

"  But  how  can  he -help  the  princess  if  a  war 
begins  ?  " 

Schamyl  is  incredulous.    His  heart  calls  for  action. 

"  Listen  !  The  English  insist  upon  the  protec 
tion  of  the  Armenian  convents  and  churches.  If 
we  can  only  find  where  the  lady  is,  Hassan  can  help 
us  smuggle  her  into  one  of  the  Armenian  convent- 
churches. 

"  Their  priests  are  all  married.  The  troops  will 
not  search  the  convents.  She  will  be  safe  till  we 
know  where  she  is.  She  can  disguise  herself. 

"  When  the  city  is  taken,  she  can  be  at  once 
found." 

"  But  can  she  not  be  got  out  before  ?  "  Schamyl 
anxiously  queries. 

"  I  will  have  letters  or  a  message  for  you  if  we 
find  her.  I  fear  Ghazee  Mohammed  might  poison 
her!  You  must  keep  away.  My  son,  Ghazee  will 
watch  you,  not  her!  You  must  keep  away.  Be 
not  rash." 

The  jewel  merchant  is  right.  While  Schamyl 
thinks  the  scheme  over,  Hassan  and  Abdallah  talk 
at  length. 

"  Taib,  Taib  Ketir  !  Very  good,"  says  Abdallah. 
"  Leave  now,  my  son,  your  servitor  with  me.  I  will 
take  care  of  his  horse  and  his  goods.  He  can  come 
to  me  any  time." 

Schamyl  offers  Abdallah  the  use  of  money. 

"  Buckra  !  Buckra  !  Later,  my  son,"  replies  the 
cunning  old  Moslem.  u  We  will  talk  later." 

In  a  half-hour,  Schamyl  has  closed  his  conference 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  169 

with    Abdallah.      A   billet    for    Hassan   to    deliver 
says: 

"Trust  the  bearer  in  all.  He  will  tell  what  to  do.  Your  lover 
till  death. 

"  AHMED." 

"  My  son,  the  stars  are  high  toward  the  west. 
You  go  to  Tiflis.  I  will  see  that  Hassan  Bey 
guards  your  man.  You  will  come  back  here  with 
the  invading  army.  I  will  work  silently  in  this 
cause.  Let  the  man  stay  with  me.  He  shall  have 
money  and  all  he  wants  in  Kars.  To  Hassan  Bey 
I  will  myself  write,  in  Persian,  by  my  own  spy.  He 
will  send  the  Princess  Maritza  money  for  bribes,  or 
any  help  he  can.  You  can  repay  me  later. 

"  But,  if  we  endeavor  to  bring  her  off,  Ghazee  will 
poison  her  or  send  her  away  into  the  heart  of 
Syria  or  farther  Turkey.  If  she  ventured  out  of 
Kars,  the  Kurds  and  spies  spare  neither  the  living 
nor  the  dead.  They  are  the  vultures  of  the  battle 
field.  They  even  rob  the  Christian  graves !  They 
strip  the  dead. 

"May  Allah  protect  her!  We  will  hide  her  in 
Kars.  When  the  city  falls  we  can  send  her  at  once 
to  Russia,  far  away  over  the  Caucasus. 

"Tell  the  General  Komaroff  all.  He  will  help 
me  and  send  you  the  news.  Now  go,  my  son, 
and  send  your  man  back  in  the  dark. 

"  No  one  must  know  where  he  is.  There  are 
Turkish  spies  even  here  !  " 

Ahmed  promises  Abdallah  a  princely  reward  for 
the  safety  of  Maritza.  The  old  sage  is  wise  indeed. 
Ah !  Osman  Bey,  the  chief  of  the  Intelligence 


170  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

Bureau.  He  will  get  Komaroff's  order  for  Osman's 
aid. 

"  I  will  send  a  message  to  Suleiman  Mehemed 
Pacha.  He  will  watch  Ghazee's  daily  life  and  tell 
me  of  those  around  him.  He  is  a  true  soldier, 
and  my  trusted  friend." 

Schamyl  briefly  informs  Abdallah  of  their  meet 
ing. 

"  Good!     I  can  send  him  your  letter!  " 

Saluting  the  wise  old  negotiator,  Schamyl  rides 
to  his  troops  at  their  camp.  It  is  the  best  he  can  do. 

Hassan  prepares  his  entire  luggage,  and  all  the 
treasured  relics  of  the  Kurdish  defeat.  He  must 
slip  out  of  the  camp  and  say  "  Good-by  "  to  his 
master,  for  a  time.  He  is  strangely  eager  for  this 
desperate  service. 

If  discovered,  he  will  be  impaled  alive,  and  left 
for  the  rock-ravens  of  the  Kara-Dagh. 

Schamyl,  in  plain  words,  gives  Hassan  his  parting 
commands.  He  has  told  him  what  to  do  in  every 
case — above  all,  not  to  risk  the  life  of  the  princess, 
or  to  make  any  rash  attempt  to  rescue  her.  Hassan 
Bey,  for  Abdallah's  gold,  will  act  when  chance 
occurs.  Schamyl  begs  Hassan  to  send  out  his  news 
and  any  letters  to  Abdallah. 

"  And  if  the  Master  Ghazee  should  try  to  take 
her  away  from  Kars?  "  Hassan  queries. 

Schamyl  is  silent.  He  cannot  order  the  assassi 
nation  of  his  brother. 

Hassan  answers  for  himself  as  they  ride  up  to 
the  dark  square  where  Abdallah  waits  for  Hassan. 

"  Highness,"  says  Hassan,  grimly,  "  your  brother, 
the  master,  shed  my  blood.  I  am  a  Circassian.  If 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  171 

he  leaves  Kars  with  the  day-star,  I  can  follow  him 
for  my  revenge.  It  is  my  right." 

Schamyl  is  silent.  One  last  precaution !  He 
hands  Hassan  a  little  scrawl  to  Suleiman  Mehemed 
Pacha,  his  old  friend. 

"  Should  you  be  captured,  Suleiman  will  help. 
You  may  tell  him  all,  if  you  fall  in  his  hands." 

They  are  at  Abdallah's  gate.  Prince  Schamyl 
remembers  the  secret  of  his  birth,  locked  in  that  rug 
ged  old  breast.  Only  Ghazee  and  Hassan  know. 

He  pleads  with  his  old  servitor.  Hassan  bows  his 
head. 

"  May  Allah  judge  me !  I  gave  my  oath  to  the 
dying.  Should  the  dark  angel's  wing  sweep  over 
me,  you  will  know  then,  but  not  till  then." 

The  parting  moment  comes.  Schamyl  holds  up 
the  mystic  amulet  of  his  father. 

Hassan  kisses  it  humbly. 

"  Swear  faith  to  the  princess,  Hassan,"  he  sol 
emnly  says. 

"  I  swear  on  the  tomb  of  Mohammed,"  utters  the 
old  man. 

He  is  gone.  The  courtyard  gates,  unbarred,  hide 
him.  Schamyl  gallops  to  his  troops  ;  the  twinkling 
stars  hang  over  distant  Kars,  where  his  lost  love, 
perhaps,  watches  for  the  help  which  comes  not. 

Before  KomarorT  has  buckled  on  his  sabre  next 
morning  for  parade,  Schamyl's  squadron,  sent  in 
advance,  is  twenty  miles  toward  Tiflis. 

Ahmed's  steed  champs  below.  Three  orderlies 
wait  with  him  to  overtake  the  column. 

General  KomarorT  gives  Prince  Schamyl  his  latest 
despatches.  To  both  the  general  and  Osman  Bey 


1/2  PRINCE   SCHAMYL  S   WOOING. 

he  imparts  the  secret  of  old  Hassan's  desperate 
venture. 

"  I  will  see  that  Abdallah  and  Hassan  Bey,  in 
Kars,  have  every  aid  my  headquarters  can  give. 
Pray  ask  General  MelikofT  to  send  you  to  lead  my 
advance,  Prince,"  says  the  old  fighter,  as  Schamyl 
bends  low  in  thanks.  .  .  . 

The  three  days'  march  to  Tiflis  is  a  dream  to 
Schamyl.  Pricking  sharply  along  the  road,  he 
heads  his  men  cheerfully.  Osman  Bey,  as  chief  of 
the  Intelligence  Department,  can  use  every  wire  in 
the  Trans-Caucasus.  A  few  cipher  words  exchanged 
will  enable  Schamyl  to  hear  of  every  movement.  Now 
for  Circassia  !  Then  for  the  field!  The  sound  of 
wedding-bells  was  never  as  welcome  to  eager  groom 
as  the  first  roar  of  KomarofT s  cannon  will  be  to 
fiery  Ahmed. 

When  his  splendid  squadron  swings  into  line  on  the 
square  in  front  of  the  Grand  Duke's  palace,  Schamyl 
dismounts,  to  be  greeted  by  Gronoff  with  the  enthu 
siasm  of  a  brother  of  the  sword. 

"  Breakfast  with  me.  I  have  letters  for  you,"  he 
whispers.  Schamyl's  magic  word  "  Despatches  " 
gives  him  precedence  over  all  the  waiting  generals 
of  the  garrison. 

Loris  Melikoff  is  not  chary  of  his  praise  for 
Schamyl.  "  You  will  dine  with  the  Grand  Duke 
and  myself,  alone,  this  evening.  To-morrow  you  go 
to  Circassia  and  Daghestan  !  " 

In  a  few  words  Melikoff  tells  him  of  the  fruitless 
search  for  the  Princess  Maritza.  Schamyl's  reports 
alone  indicate  her  presence  in  Kars.  MelikofT 
pledges  the  whole  secret  service  in  her  aid. 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  173 

The  Turkish  commander  as  yet  denies  all  knowl 
edge  of  her.  He  even  promises  to  aid! 

Schamyl  rejoins  Gronoff.  Seated  in  the  luxurious 
mess-room,  the  grand  square  before  the  palace  win 
dows  is  a  living  picture. 

February  breezes  move  the  budding  leaves.  Pass 
ing  troops  and  all  the  bustle  of  an  early  war  keep 
up  a  daily  excitement. 

Gronoff  hands  him  a  sheaf  of  letters — Paul  Pla- 
toff,  his  brother  officers  of  the  Uhlans,  Tarnaieff 
from  Constantinople,  and  many  others. 

He  tears  open  Tarnaieff's  first,  at  the  well-spread 
table  covered  with  the  dainties  of  Tiflis.  It  is  sol 
dierly  in  its  brevity : 

"DEAR  SCHAMYL  :  I  find  from  our  secret  service  here  that  Countess 
Vronsky  has  joined  Ghazee  Schamyl  in  Asia  Minor.  She  took  the 
steamer  to  Trebizond.  His  brigade  and  Moussa  Pacha's  are  at 
Kars.  Look  out  for  him  !  She  is  also  dangerous.  I  think  Mus- 
tapha  was  glad  to  get  her  away  from  Constantinople,  for  fear  of 
Ignatief.  I  hold  on  here  to  the  last.  The  embassy  is  shut.  I  join 
by  Odessa  and  Sughum-Kale  next  month  early.  I  am  to  see  the 
commander  in  Bessarabia,  and  then  report  to  Melikoff.  Will  hope 
to  meet  you  on  the  staff. 

"  TARNAIEFF." 

Platoff  writes  from  the  frozen  mud  of  the  Do- 
brudsha : 

"Our  artillery  is  here,  all  waiting  for  the  signal.  All  your  brother's 
estates,  property,  and  goods  are  confiscated,  and  his  commissions  and 
titles  cancelled.  You  are  now  Schamyl  the  chief  !  Beware  of  assas 
sination. 

"  PLATOFF." 

Thrusting  the  mass  of  unimportant  matter  into 
his  tunic,  Schamyl  listens  to  GronofFs  description 
of  the  sorrows  of  the  Lazareffs,  and  the  two  lovely 
friends  of  Maritza,  the  missing  Rose. 


174  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

"  My  dear  Schamyl,  there  is  a  growing  fear  that 
Princess  Maritza  has  joined  the  Turks.  It  is  all  we 
can  do  to  keep  the  Abkhasians  from  open  revolt. 
The  official  denial  of  the  Turkish  commander  of  her 
presence  leaves  us  no  means  to  force  the  search 
for  her  now.  We  must  all  wait." 

Gronoff  gives  Schamyl  the  latest  phase  of  the 
war  news. 

"  Only  waiting  the  signal !  The  Turks  dally,  and 
will  not  sign  the  protocol.  St.  Petersburg's  cabinet 
waits  but  one  word  from  the  Emperor  to  issue  its 
circular  note  to  the  powers.  A  second  nod  of  the 
august  imperator  will  throw  four  hundred  thousand 
men  on  the  foe  !  " 

Schamyl  hardly  listens  to  Gronoffs  gossip.  His 
heart  is  in  Kars  with  Maritza. 

Nadya  Vronsky,  the  "  White  Countess,"  there  ! 
Can  he  not  use  her  jealousy  in  some  way  ?  He  must 
warn  Abdallah  !  Hassan  Bey  may  watch  the  love 
sick  dupe  of  Ghazee.  She  will  ferret  out  the  hiding- 
place  of  the  Rose.  Can  he  trust  her  ? 

Schamyl's  lip  curls  in  a  cynic  sneer. 

"  Can  we  trust  any  one  in  this  world  ?  " 

Schamyl's  visit  to  Madame  Lazareff  wrings  his 
heart  with  the  old  anxiety.  Nina  and  Tia  mourn 
for  their  beloved  Maritza  and  refuse  to  be  com 
forted. 

Ahmed  dares  not  trust  himself  in  a  long  interview 
with  Madame  la  Generale.  His  judgment  tells  him 
the  fall  of  Kars  will  be  the  prelude  to  the  real  search 
for  the  Rose  of  Tiflis. 

He  dares  not  unfold  a  whisper  of  the  awful  in 
trigues  tying  Osman  Bey  to  the  willing  traitor 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  175 

Hassan  Bey  at  Kars.  The  fate  of  the  campaign  de 
pends  upon  that  slender  line  tied  in  the  golden  knot 
of  Abdallah's  purse-strings. 

Comforting  the  ladies  with  his  belief  that  Maritza 
is  too  powerful  a  political  prize  to  be  grossly  mal 
treated,  he  slowly  regains  the  palace. 

In  these  warm  February  days  the  willows  by  the 
Arpa  Schai  are  straggling  into  green. 

A  zigzag  line  of  red  rifle-pits  covers  the  winding 
river  bank,  and  a  double  chain  of  sentinels  prevents 
a  coup  de  main.  Alas  !  the  pearl  is  stolen  ! 

His  Highness  the  Grand  Duke  Michael  greets 
Schamyl  warmly  at  the  dinner. 

When  the  circle  of  officers  thins  out,  General 
Melikoff  leads  the  way  to  his  "  bureau  de  travail." 

Schamyl  follows  the  Grand  Duke.  There  is  no 
one  present  save  the  factotum  Gronoff. 

A  huge  map  of  the  Trans-Caucasus  lies  unrolled 
on  a  table. 

Melikoff  with  care  arranges  a  number  of  red  and 
black  flag-pins  over  the  map. 

In  low  tones  the  Grand  Duke  and  his  general 
confer. 

At  the  end  of  half  an  hour,  Gronoff  has  traced 
for  Schamyl  the  route  of  his  command  upon  a  cam 
paign  map.  He  retires  to  prepare  the  order  assign 
ing  Prince  Schamyl  to  a  moving  column  of  picked 
troops. 

"Prince,"  the  general  directs,  "you  will  leave 
to-morrow  with  your  present  command.  At  each 
of  the  marked  points  in  this  list  you  will  pick  up 
two  more  sotnias.  Your  route  will  occupy  two 
months.  After  you  have  moved  through  Circassia 


176  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

and  Daghestan,  you  will  march,  clearing  away  any 
uprising,  direct  to  Goomri. 

"  As  you  return,  picking  up  the  troops  laid  out  on 
this  route  for  you,  you  will  arrive  at  Goomri  with 
ten  full  squadrons.  The  army  will  be  ready  to 
cross,  and  I  hope  to  see  you  lead  the  advance.  It 
rests  with  his  Highness  to  reward  your  services. 
Don't  spare  the  sword  with  traitors !  You  have 
full  power  !  " 

Ahmed  bows  low  in  appreciation  of  the  honor. 
His  secret  instructions  are  prepared.  In  parting 
the  Grand  Duke  Michael  says  genially : 

"  Prince,  you  are  rather  young  for  a  general!" 

Is  it  a  prophecy?  It  does  not  rouse  the  lover's 
heart.  Beloved  Maritza  is  his  only  thought. 

Before  the  midnight  bell  booms  from  the  old 
cathedral,  a  fleet  courier  is  on  his  way  to  Goomri 
with  a  packet  for  Abdallah. 

Schamyl  has  given  old  Hassan  his  scheme  to  dis 
cover  the  lost  Rose  of  Tiflis.  A  jealous  woman's 
wit  is  sharper  than  a  keen-edged  sword. 

The  White  Countess  may  turn  the  tide  in  Ma- 
ritza's  fate. 

By  the  light  of  the  morning  stars  Schamyl  sweeps 
away  to  the  gorges  of  the  Caucasus,  to  wander  over 
the  defiles  of  Daghestan.  He  will  hunt  out,  with 
his  merciless  riders,  the  vermin  spies  crawling  in  the 
rear  of  the  great  army.  It  is  now  ready  to  spring 
over  the  Arpa  Tchai,  unsta'ined  for  a  score  of  years 
with  the  blood  of  warring  enemies. 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  177 

CHAPTER  IX. 

IN    THE  WOLF'S    DEN. — KARS. — THE    MESSAGE    OF 
THE   ROSE. — AHMED,    MY   LOVER! 

A  CAPTIVE  woman  gazes  wistfully  from  a  grated 
window  in  Moussa  Pacha's  superb  headquarters  at 
Kars. 

Rising  out  of  the  bare  Armenian  plains,  like  a 
black  ship  on  a  desert  shore,  Kars  bristles  rudely, 
its  rocky  walls  armed  to  the  teeth.  Itt  lies  under 
the  overhanging  citadel,  on  the  Soghanly  spur, 
the  last  stronghold  of  the  Turks. 

A  thousand  feet  below  the  city,  crowded  on  the 
western,  southern,  and  eastern  slopes  of  the  steep 
mountain,  flows  the  swift  "  Kars  Tchai."  Its  deep 
gorge  cleaves  in  twain  this  town,  which  is  Persian, 
Turkish,  or  Russian,  as  fate  ordains.  Kars  is  the 
prey  of  the  heaviest  sword.  Star  forts  and  out 
works  dot  the  desert  plains  around  it.  Their  para 
pets  are  piled  with  shot  and  shell. 

Every  engine  of  war,  from  the  olden  Ottoman 
bronze  culverins  to  Krupp's  masterpieces  in  rifled 
steel,  is  at  hand  to  welcome  the  warlike  Russ,  whose 
own  lair  can  be  seen  thirty  miles  away. 

Princess  Maritza's  tear-stained  eyes  note  the 
crowds  of  armed  men,  the  groaning  wains  of  military 
stores,  the  huddle  of  zaphtiehs,  Kurds,  deserters, 
renegades,  and  Bashibazouks.  Solid  battalions  are 
embattled  everywhere. 

Forty  thousand  fierce  Moslems  listen  daily  to  the 
muezzins'  wailing  cry  from  the  slender  minarets.  The 
plains  are  covered  with  the  growing  Turkish  host. 

It  is  all  so  strange,  so  new,  so  wild  !     The  proud 

12 


I?8  PRINCE   SCHAMYL'S   WOOING. 

girl  sees  the  far  blue  hills  of  her  native  Georgia  pen 
cilling  the  pale-green  northern  sky.  It  seems  like  a 
horrid  dream,  these  three  long  weeks,  since  she  was 
torn  from  the  gardens  of  the  Lazareff  palace. 

Since  she  entered  the  gloomy  sally  port,  on  the 
southern  wall,  she  has  been  a  close  prisoner  here, 
her  brutal  warden  the  detested  Ghazee. 

Every  day  the  princely  deserter  renews  his  passion 
ate  arguments  and  prayers.  She  is  deaf  to  all  his 
entreaties.  And  even  he  dares  not  use  force.  He 
fears  noble  Mukhtar. 

Her  mind  is  fixed  on  the  horrors  of  those  hours 
when,  muffled  and  bound,  she  floated  down  the 
dangerous  Kura,  under  the  very  guns  of  Tiflis. 
Yet  her  wild  captors,  her  savage  companion  (the 
Kurdish  lady),  were  not  unduly  rough. 

Lonely  days  in  a  frail  river  boat,  hiding  in  the 
marshes  by  daylight,  floating  under  the  chill  winter 
winds  at  night,  brought  to  her  only  a  dumb  sense  of 
suffering.  Across  the  wintry  plains  of  Anatolia  to 
the  valley  of  the  broad  Arpa  Tchai,  and  by  carriage 
to  Kars,  she  was  hurried  with  cold  sternness,  but  no 
positive  cruelty. 

Omar  Effendi  but  once  in  this  journey  showed 
his  tiger  claws.  Muffled  in  a  Turkish  lady's  bashlik 
and  veil,  she  was  driven  quietly  into  Kars,  with  a 
significant  hint  as  to  any  outcry. 

A  drawn  dagger  terrified  her  shaken  soul. 

Alone  and  a  prisoner !  She  was  betrayed  by  the 
mocking  she-devil  Fatima,  who  only  answered  her 
reproaches  with  the  taunt  at  parting : 

"You  will  be  comfortable  enough  in  Prince 
Ghazee's  harem  by  and  by." 


PRINCE    SCHAMYL  S   WOOING.  179 

Conducted  to  secluded  rooms,  where  she  is  waited 
on  by  two  stolid  Turkish  women,  she  fights  off  the 
dread  thought  ever  gnawing  at  her  heart  : 

"  I  may  die  here — alone — before  I  am  freed." 

For,  though  the  Russian  blue  and  white  cross  has 
twice  waved  from  Kars'  citadel,  Paskiewitch's  cap 
ture  in  1828  was  useless;  the  treaty  of  Adrianople 
gave  it  up  again  to  the  Crescent.  In  1855  the 
Russian  gained  Kars  once  more,  to  lose  it  by  the 
juggling  treaty  of  Paris. 

Now,  between  her  loyal  friends  and  her  prison 
door  are  the  bayonets  of  forty  thousand  sturdy 
Moslems  in  arms.  Mukhtar  will  contest  every  inch 
of  ground  from  the  boundary  line. 

Clouds  of  recruits  pour  in  every  day  to  swell  the 
ranks  of  Mukhtar's  troops. 

Her  flesh  creeps  at  the  memory  of  Ghazee's  slimy 
advances,  as  he  gloated  first  over  her  helplessness. 
Her  arrival  inflamed  his  olden  greedy  passion.  A 
lonely  Rose,  indeed  ! 

Solemnly  has  she  sworn  to  him  that  her  death 
will  follow  his  renewal  of  a  detested  suit. 

The  daughter  of  the  old  Greek  warrior  princes 
has  still  the  bearing  of  a  goddess,  though  caged 
within  these  sad  stone  walls.  Death  before  dis 
honor  is  written  on  her  bright  brow. 

In  vain  Moussa  Pacha  diplomatically  pleads  the 
cause  of  the  wily  Ghazee.  His  voice  falls  unheeded 
on  her  ear. 

"  When  I  am  again  at  Tiflis,  when  you  are  once  more 
Colonel  Kondukoff,  I  will  listen  to  you  ;  not  till  then." 

The  deserter  renegade's  cheeks  redden  under  her 
bitter  words.  The  days  are  wearing  away  into 


i8p  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

March,  the  war  cloud  settles  into  overhanging  black 
ness.  Any  day  the  crackling  rifles  may  rain  their 
death  hail  over  the  Arpa. 

From  her  iron-barred  windows  she  can  see  the 
roofs  of  the  Armenian  convents  near  by,  surmounted 
by  the  cross.  Oh,  for  one  friend  !  never  so  humble, 
still  a  friend— and  true  ! 

The  Christian  population  live  in  Kars  on  suffer 
ance.  Bereft  of  her  money  and  jewels,  only  sup 
plied  with  Turkish  garb  for  her  daily  use,  with  no 
means  of  bribery,  she  is  absolutely  powerless. 

Day  after  day  drifts  by.  Leaning  her  pale,  proud 
face  against  the  casement,  Maritza  dreams  of  Ah 
med,  the  soldierly  brother  of  the  cruel  scoundrel 
who  holds  her  in  his  net.  Is  he  faithless?  Is  he— 
O  God  !  is  he  dead  ? 

Her  abductor  has  never  mentioned  Prince  Ah 
med.  Is  it  state  policy  ?  Is  it  as  a  hostage  for  the 
future,  or  to  serve  a  mere  caprice  of  the  deserter 
who  shines  "  en  Pacha  "  now,  that  she  is  confined 
in  these  lonely  mansion  rooms  with  her  watchful 
women  attendants? 

Ghazee  Schamyl  Pacha's  daily  visit  brings  her  a 
fear  of  the  worst  of  fates.  The  spring  flowers  are 
peeping  out  now  on  the  slopes  of  the  Kara  Dagh. 

Ghazee  at  last  shows  his  true  colors.  He  will 
plead  no  more.  "  Princess,"  he  roughly  says,  "  I 
have  pointed  out  to  you  the  advantages  of  a  union 
of  our  houses.  This  holy  war  will  wrap  the  Cau 
casus  in  fire  and  flame.  Within  a  fortnight  I  shall 
go  forth  to  the  field  with  my  troops  to  cut  my  way 
to  Tiflis.  Ismail  Pacha,  from  Erzeroum,  will  invade 
Circassia  with  fifty  thousand  men.  The  Sultan  will 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  181 

erect  Georgia,  Abkhasia,  Circassia,  and  Daghestan 
into  a  vice-royalty.  I  ask  you  to  share  that  throne 
with  me.  England  is  with  us.  We  must  succeed." 

Maritzade  Deshkalin's  first  answer  is  a  contemptu 
ous  glance  which  cuts  the  renegade.  She  slowly 
says:  "  I  swear  to  you,  by  my  mother's  grave,  I  will 
kill  myself  before  I  will  be' your  bride!  Wear  your 
stolen  crown  alone." 

"Ah,  you  will  have  time  to  think  better  of  that ! 
I  will  send  you  to  the  farthest  castle  in  Kurdestan, 
and  there  give  you  time  to  think  it  over,  while  we 
bait  the  wolves  with  the  Russian  dogs."  Schamyl 
Pacha's  anger  rises.  "  One  week  I  give  you  now. 
Before  then  you  will  know  how  to  answer  me." 

Maritza  is  mute.  Unknown  future  horrors  haunt 
her. 

As  Ghazee  mounts  his  horse  to  ride  to  his  brigade 
camp,  he  jostles  a  camel-driver  at  Moussa's  door. 
Full  on  the  back  of  the  poor  peasant  falls  Schamyl's 
koorbash,  cutting  to  the  quick.  The  howling  man 
darts  into  the  courtyard  of  the  house. 

Shaven  and  blackened,  a  coarse  brown  skull-cap 
on  his  head,  a  dirty  caftan  fluttering  around  his  bare 
legs,  his  feet  shod  with  rawhide  sandals,  only  a  wand 
in  his  hand — Hassan,  the  old  borderer,  howls  under 
the  lash  of  Ghazee.  His  old  master  rode  him  down 
without  knowing  him.  A  compliment  to  his  dis 
guise  !  A  sore  one  ! 

Hassan  is  no  more  the  gorgeous  legatee  of 
departed  Kurds.  Though  his  back  smarts  (the  blood 
streaming  freely  from  the  sweep  of  the  rhinoceros 
riding  whip),  there  is  a  wild  gleam  of  triumph  in  his 
glittering  eyes. 


1 82  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

His  sworn  revenge  can  ivait.     His  triumph  is  near. 

For,  day  by  day,  he  has  dogged  Ghazee  over  Kars. 
In  every  visit  within  the  town  the  watchful  eyes  of 
Hassan  follow  the  proud  pacha. 

Sneaking  at  night  into  Hassan  Bey's  courtyard, 
the  old  Circassian,  in  the  darkness  of  night,  whispers 
to  the  staff  officer  his  daily  report. 

With  all  Abdallah's  gold,  with  Hassan  Bey's  com 
plete  knowledge  of  the  town,  no  news  of  lost 
Maritza  has  yet  reached  the  anxious  Abdallah  at 
Goomri.  Even  when  the  houses  are  listed,  and  the 
Christians  are  turned  out  to  make  room  for  troops, 
no  trace  of  the  hiding-place  of  the  Rose  of  Tiflis  is 
found. 

Hassan  conceals  in  his  girdle  the  little  strip  of 
parchment  with  Prince  Schamyl's  greeting  to  his  love. 

Hassan  has  searched  every  bazaar  and  coffee-house. 
Not  a  whisper  of  the  vanished  Rose. 

Hassan  Bey,  eager  to  hold  Abdallah's  favor,  daily 
watches  Moussa  and  Ghazee.  No  trace  of  the  dark- 
eyed  "  day-star." 

But  now  the  Circassian  has  at  last  a  clue.  Sev 
eral  times  a  week  he  has  followed  Ghazee  to  Mous- 
sa's  quarters.  Long  the  pacha's  charger  stands  in 
the  court,  and  Moussa  is  not  there.  To  wander 
over  the  silent  mansion  of  Moussa  is  an  impossi 
bility  for  any  humble  servitor.  What  can  he  do? 
The  day-star  must  be  hidden  there  ! 

Leaning  against  the  walls,  jostled  by  the  waiting 
crowd  of  attendants,  a  grim  smile  flickers  over  Has 
san's  face.  Pie  has  a  desperate  plan. 

He  is  a  Turk  of  the  Turks  in  his  knowledge  of 
customs.  But  one  sacred  sufferer  cannot  be  turned 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.    .         183 

from  the  Moslem  door.  Where  even  a  holy  pilgrim 
may  not  claim  hospitality,  the  unfortunate  fool  may 
enter  at  will.  God's  wanderer,  bereft  of  his  senses, 
cannot  be  roughly  treated  under  the  crescent  flag. 
He  is  free  and  guarded  by  the  prophet's  blessing. 

Haste  !  haste  !  Hassan  the  camel-driver  !  In  two 
hours  a  gaunt  form  wanders  down  the  street,  where 
Maritza  hopelessly  peers  from  the  diamond-screened 
lattice  of  her  prison. 

Hanging  jaw  and  rolling  eye  proclaim  the  sacred 
sufferer  whom  Allah  has  chastened. 

Roaming  at  will,  even  the  Pacha  of  Kars  dare 
not  maltreat  this  child  of  misery.  Mixing  with  the 
scullions  of  the  Turkish  kitchen,  he  signs  for  a  cup  of 
water.  It  is  offered  in  Mohammed's  sacred  name. 
Up  the  stairways,  unopposed,  the  idiot  wanders. 
There  are  no  lattices  on  the  rear  of  the  mansion 
overlooking  the  dark  river  in  its  dismal  gorge  below. 
The  side  walls  are  blank.  She  must  be  on  the  front 
corridor.  Fearlessly  he  wanders  along. 

Two  rows  of  arabesque  windows  overlook  the 
noisy  street  with  its  throng  of  passing  soldiery. 

Unnoticed  by  the  guards,  the  sacred  fool  may 
pace  to  or  fro.  It  is  the  black  curse  of  Eblis  to 
drive  him  from  any  Moslem's  door. 

One  room  after  another  does  the  fool  wander 
through,  his  broken  voice  jibbering  words  from  the 
Koran. 

In  the  corridors  he  passes  the  loitering,  dull- 
eyed  women  of  the  house.  They  pass  in  bated 
breath,  for  the  awful  spell  of  Allah's  words  is  on 
them. 

A  heavy  curtain  swings  before  each  door  ;  with 


1 84  PRINCE  .SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

a  skinny  hand,  Hassan  pushes  aside  the  last  one  of 
the  row. 

Seated  on  the  window  bench,  friendless  and  sor 
rowing,  Princess  Maritza  turns  her  head. 

Startled  yet  not  dismayed — for  Tiflis  has  also  its 
wandering  mollahs,  its  semi-frantic  dervishes — she 
regards  the  intruder.  He  eyes  her  closely. 

It  is  indeed  the  lost  Lady  of  Tiflis — the  Princess 
of  Georgia  !  At  the  distant  door,  with  timidity 
the  attendants  watch  the  progress  of  God's  wander 
ing  visitor.  He  can  do  no  harm. 

As  he  approaches,  Hassan  murmurs  a  word  or 
two  of  her  native  tongue.  Maritza's  cheek  grows 
very  pale.  Seating  himself  on  the  floor,  he  intones 
a  wild  harangue  of  Turkish.  In  a  low  voice  he 
whispers  quickly  the  messages  of  Ahmed  Schamyl. 

Princess  Maritza  is  herself  once  more.  Hassan 
tears  his  gown.  He  rocks  to  and  fro.  He  plays 
with  pebbles  and  some  bits  of  colored  glass. 

Dropping  at  her  feet  the  little  slip  of  parchment 
from  his  girdle,  he  raises  his  strained  voice  in  a 
chant  of  Moslem  praise. 

Her  flaming  eyes  are  on  him.  The  listless  attend 
ants  wander  in  the  corridors. 

There  is  a  gleam  of  joy  on  Maritza's  face.  In  a 
few  moments,  she  knows  that  'the  traitor  Hassan 
Bey  is  a  friend  to  the  Russia'ns.  Abdallah's  agency 
and  Schamyl's  wishes  make  her  heart  bound. 

"  Be  calm  and  quiet,  oh  day-star  !  "  Hassan  inter 
jects,  in  his  praying.  "  I  will  be  under  your  window, 
and  can  warn  you  in  our  own  language.  I  go  now  to 
Hassan  Bey.  He  will  contrive  the  way  to  get  you 
out  of  here.  I  watch  over  you  night  and  day  now." 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  185 

Wildly  swinging  his  arms,  Hassan  arises  and 
paces  slowly  from  the  room.  There  is  foam  on  his 
lips.  Down  the  corridors,  past  the  armed  sabre- 
bearing  eunuchs  at  the  door,  the  poor  fool  wanders. 
He  is  soon  lost  in  the  wild  throng  outside.  He  bears 
a  token. 

Maritza  can  send  no  message  ;  no  word  will  she 
yet  trust,  save  to  give  the  messenger  a  red  rose. 
The  flowers  are  blooming  now  in  the  garden  of  the 
palace  enclosure. 

"  To  Ahmed,  my  lover,  this  rose,"  she  whispers 
as  the  messenger  departs  with  a  little  paper. 

Hassan  Bey  sits  pondering  over  the  war  tele 
grams  in  his  headquarter  room.  A  dark  form 
stands  in  the.  doorway.  The- Circassian  wanders 
past  him  into  an  inner  room. 

There  is  triumph  in  the  eyes  of  the  old  spy.  He 
tells  his  story.  Keen-witted  and  subtle,  Hassan  Bey's 
plan  is  soon  made.  He  has  now  found  the  bower 
whence  Countess  Nadya  Vronsky  watches  uneasily 
Ghazee's  movements  now  by  day  and  night.  Ab- 
dallah's  letters  give  him  her  full  history. 

"  Do  you  know  this  pale-faced  puppet  ? "  he 
questions  of  the  old  sergeant. 

Well  does  the  Circassian  remember  the  elegante. 
The  fair  Countess  Vronsky  dashing  along  the 
Nevsky  in  her  sleigh,  or  rolling  through  the  leafy 
drives  on  the  island,  drew  all  eyes. 

In  his  former  attendance  on  Ghazee,  he  has 
learned  to  know  the  face  of  the  lady  whose  wiles 
embroiled  many  a  "  preux  chevalier  "  by  the  Neva. 

"  You  await  me  here.  I  will  see  her.  I  propose 
to  have  her  help  the  princess  out  of  that  wolf's  den. 


1 86  PRINCE   SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

"You  can  watch,  in  your  disguise,  to-morrow 
morning  until  she  arrives.  I  will  have  Prince  Gha- 
zee  sent  out  on  a  reconnoissance  for  three  days. 
The  moment  we  can  get  Princess  Maritza  out,  I 
will  be  at  hand  with  a  covered  wagon.  The  great 
Armenian  convent  is  the  place  for  her.  There  are 
fifty  nuns  there.  I  will  have  a  guard  of  my  men  on 
duty  in  a  by  street.  When  Ghazee  returns,  all  traces 
of  her  will  be  lost." 

Two  hours  later  Ghazee  Schamyl  clatters  out  of 
the  sally  port,  surrounded  by  a  hundred  Circassian 
deserters.  Three  or  four  renegade  officers  ride  at 
his  side.  A  sudden  order  sends  him  to  inspect  all 
the  outposts.  With  a  hurried  good-by  to  Nadya 
Vronsky  the  burly,  red-faced  pacha  sets  his  steed  in 
motion  for  a  whirling  dash  through  the  circling 
picket  camps,  fifty  miles  in  extent. 

Hassan  Bey's  potent  touch  sways  Mukhtar's  daily 
orders.  A  gallant  chief  !  a  faithless  confidant ! 

Daintily  down  the  main  street  of  Kars,  Hassan 
Bey,  the  citadel  commander,  curvets  on  his  splendid 
gray  Arab.  European  polish  lightens  his  manners. 
He  has  mingled  in  the  gilded  circles  of  the  Conti 
nent. 

His  jaunty  uniform  blazes  with  embroidery ; 
his  red  fez  surmounts  a  face  of  inscrutable  re 
pose. 

As  he  throws  the  reins  to  an  orderly,  the  obse 
quious  attendants  of  the  Hotel  de  Beyrout  an 
nounce  his  visit  to  Madame  la  Comtesse  Vronsky. 

A  graceful  Turkish  costume  becomes  the  lovely 
countess,  whose  fair  complexion  and  light  hair  be 
tray  her  masquerade. 


PRINCE   SCH/    lYL'S   WOOING.  l8/ 

Hassan  Bey,  with  easy  politeness,  explains  his 
object  in  calling. 

"  I  have  received  letters  concerning  you,  madame, 
of  a  private  nature,  from  my  friend  Mustapha  Bey,  the 
charge  d'affaires  at  St.  Petersburg.  You  know  him  ?  " 

Nadya  Vronsky's  pale  face  is  a  shade  paler.  She 
inclines  her  fair  head. 

"  I  wished  to  speak  with  you  on  his  behalf.  I 
premise  that  this  conversation  must  not  be  imparted 
to  Schamyl  Pacha." 

"  Why  so  ?  "  the  lady  coldly  asks. 

"  Because,"  Hassan  answers,  in  his  fluent  French, 
"  it  would  be  very  dangerous  for  you." 

"  Ah  !  you  threaten — a  woman  !  "  her  voice  rings 
with  a  cutting  sneer. 

"  Not  so,  madame  !  I  only  ivarn"  quietly  answers 
Hassan.  u  Pray  pardon  my  directness.  You  have 
been  a  private  Turkish  agent  at  St.  Petersburg.  / 
am  in  charge  of  the  secret  service  here.  Several 
of  the  ablest  representatives  of  this  service  have 
disappeared  from  time  to  time."  There  is  an 
ominous  hush. 

Nadya  Vronsky  trembles  at  heart.  She  is  no 
longer  in  the  pale  of  even  semi-civilization.  In  sav 
age  Kars,  Mukhtar  Pacha  reigns  as  absolute  dic 
tator.  Hassan  Bey  is  his  factotum. 

"  What  do  you  wish  of  me  ?  "  she  murmurs. 

"  Only  this :  Schamyl  Pacha  is  deceiving  you. 
He  hides  a  sweet  divinity  whom  he  worships  in  the 
palace  of  Moussa  Pacha.  He  has  lied  to  you.  He 
loves  you  not.  He  stole  this  woman,  Princess  Ma- 
ritza,  away  from  Tiflis,  and  now  means  to  marry  her. 

"  He  is  ambitious.     He  would  sacrifice  you  to  his 


1 88  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

greed  for  power.    For  he  would  gain  a  crown  through 
her." 

Hassan  Bey  touches  the  right  chord  at  last.  Ah 
med  Schamyl's  letter  to  Abdallah  gives  Hassan  Bey 
the  keynote  of  her  stormy  nature — an  insane  jeal 
ousy  ! 

She  is  aroused.     Her  blue  eyes  blaze. 

Hassan  calmly  continues.  He  assumes  her  per 
fect  acquiescence.  For  the  citadel  commander  is 
all  powerful. 

"  Listen  !  I  have  sent  Schamyl  Pacha  off  on  a 
three  days'  -tour.  To-morrow,  at  nine  o'clock,  you 
will  go  to  Moussa  Pacha's  house.  Take  with  you  a 
couple  of  your  attendant  women.  Let  one  of  them 
put  on  two  shawls  and  veils.  I  will  .ride  into  the 
courtyard  of  the  house  as  you  approach.  I  wish 
you  to  bring  the  Princess  Maritza  out  of  the  house 
in  the  disguise  of  one  of  your  servants.  She  will 
be  warned. 

"  At  the  door  of  the  mansion  she  will  disappear. 
I  pledge  you  that  Schamyl  will  never  see  her 
again.  I  will  be  near  you." 

"  I  demand  an  explanation  of  this.  I  will  not 
take  these  risks  blindly,"  Nadya  answers.  Her 
nerve  returns.  What  is  his  real  object  ? 

"  Bah,  madame  !  You  are  finical.  No  one  will 
know  who  you  are  when  veiled,  /will  protect  you. 
Ghazee  and  Moussa  are  both  Russian  renegades. 
They  are  powerless  here  ;  we  use  and  despise  them. 

"  You  are  the  last  one  he  will  suspect  of  knowing 
his  dove's  retreat."  Hassan's  sneer  is  coldly  pre 
meditated.  She  has  fallen  low  enough — a  betrayed 
mistress ! 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  189 

"  And  my  reward  ?  "  she  doubtfully  asks. 

"  The  confidence  and  protection  of  Mustapha 
Bey  when  Schamyl  Pacha  casts  you  off.  He  has  a 
heart  of  stone." 

"  I  will  be  there  !"  cries  Countess  Vronsky. 

"  Good  !  "  exclaims  Hassan.  "  I  will  extend  to 
you  every  favor  in  the  stormy  days  to  come.  Kars 
will  be  no  paradise  in  this  coming  siege." 

With  morning's  glimmering  dawn  Princess  Maritza 
is  at  her  window.  When  the  attendants  bring  her 
"food,  she  forces  herself  to  eat.  A  wild  excitement 
burns  in  her  veins.  The  sun  mounts  in  the  east; 
its  golden  lances  break  on  the  crags  of  the  Kara 
Dagh. 

Hark!  Beneath  her  window  now  rises  the  shrill 
sound  of  Moslem  song — a  wandering  mollah. 

Yes — beneath  her  casement  the  wild  singer  throws 
aloft  his  lean  arms  in  prayer.  It  is  her  savior  Hassan. 

His  eyes  are  fixed  steadily  upon  her  windows. 
When  the  street  is  silent  a  few  words  reach  her. 

Her  heart  beats  wildly.  The  hour  is  at  hand. 
In  a  half-hour  her  curtain  is  swung  aside. 

A  veiled  woman  enters  who  speaks  in  Russian. 
Two  Turkish  maids  follow  her. 

"  Quick !  Not  a  moment  lost  now.  Wrap  your 
self  and  follow  me." 

The  visitor  throws  her  a  shawl  and  heavy  veil. 

Maritza's  knees  give  way. 

"  Courage,  fool !     I  risk  my  life  for  you." 

With  a  sweep  of  her  own  veil  she  shows  the  face 
of  Nadya  Vronsky.  Maritza  saw  it  last  in  Petersburg. 

Bewildered,  Maritza  dons  the  heavy  mantle,  and 
twists  the  veil  over  her  head.  The  maids  linger 


190  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

in  the  room.  Her  form  is  swathed  from  head  to 
foot.  Now,  for  liberty  and  to  Ahmed  ! 

Down  the  corridors,  among  the  waiting  suitors 
and  idle  officers  who  throng  the  crowded  court 
yard,  the  veiled  lady  passes,  her  servants  straggling 
well  behind.  Moussa  Pacha  is  away.  No  one  re 
gards  women  around  the  harem  ! 

Princess  Maritzka  stands  now  in  the  street.  Her 
heart  beats  wildly.  By  her  side  the  mollah  moves 
up  closely.  A  covered  wagon  receives  the  vanish 
ing  form  of  her  conductress.  The  servants  sepa 
rate  and  are  lost  in  the  throng.  Down  toward  the 
narrow  street  on  the  river  bank  the  insane  dervish 
leads.  A  few  steps  bring  her  to  the  corner.  In  a 
curtained  chariot  she  is  quickly  concealed.  An 
officer  and  some  troops  block  the  street  behind 
them.  It  is  Hassan  Bey  ! 

"  Drive  on  ! "  he  yells,  in  Turkish. 

By  her  side  old  Hassan  sits,  his  eyes  dancing 
with  joy.  He  tells  her  of  her  destination. 

The  wagon  rolls  into  the  courtyard  of  the  gloomy 
old  Armenian  convent. 

Hassan  springs  out.  A  side  door  opens  in  the 
area. 

The  frightened  girl  is  safe  under  the  cross.  It  is 
a  small  room,  where  before  a  huge  ebony  and  ivory 
crucifix  a  candle  feebly  burns. 

The  rumble  of  wheels  tells  of  the  departing 
chariot.  Hassan  stands  by  the  door  ;  a  heavy  dagger 
is  gleaming  in  his  hands.  He  is  a  crouching  tiger. 

As  a  door  from  the  interior  opens,  a  grave,  bearded 
priest  heavily  treads  over  the  stone-tiled  floor. 

"Hasten,    my  daughter;    there    is    no    time    to 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  191 

lose !  "  By  his  side  is  Hassan  Bey,  the  citadel  com 
mandant. 

A  few  words  in  French  adjure  her  to  implicitly 
obey  the  old  priest.  She  knows  now  Abdullah's 
sly  agent. 

"  I  will  send  this  old  man  daily  to  you,  or  the 
prior,  to  communicate.  Thank  me  not,  lady.  I 
am  acting  for  your  friends  at  Tiflis.  Keep  my  secret 
with  your  life.  Both  our  heads  are  in  danger  !  " 

Hassan,  the  Circassian,  whispers:  "I  will  come 
to-morrow."  He  disappears  by  the  court.  . 

The  Turkish  staff  officer  is  gone.  With  a  kindly 
voice  the  bearded  priest  bids  her  follow  him. 

An  hour  later  the  splendid  richness  of  Princess 
Maritza's  hair  is  given  up  to  the  nun's  shears. 

A  sombre  religious  robe  and  veil  disguise  her. 

She  is  no  longer  the  Rose  of  Tiflis. 

"  Sister  Agatha"  is  the  handsomest  neophyte  in 
the  old  nunnery.  But  even  the  nun's  mantle  can 
not  dull  the  richness  of  her  eyes. 

A  quiet  rest  steals  over  her,  for  a  spacious  and 
well-furnished  cell  hides  the  once  laughing  Peters 
burg  beauty  from  her  baffled  captor.  The  Arme 
nian  convent  walls  are  inviolable,  even  in  Turkey. 

While  Maritza  dreams  in  peace  of  a  princely, 
dark-eyed  rider,  pressing  to  his  lips  her  ruby  ring, 
her  slumbers  are  only  broken  by  the  boom  of  the 
convent  bell.  But  Nadya  Vrofisky  tosses  upon 
sleepless  pillows.  Her  master  will  return  ! 

The  awful  wrath  of  Ghazee  may  crush  her  !  His 
treachery  proves  to  her  that  lips  of  love  can  lie  in 
passion's  wildest  kisses!  Ingrate  ! 

Haughty  Ghazee  Pacha,  galloping  up  the  valley 


IQ2  PRINCE   SCHAMYL  S   WOOING. 

from  the  Arpa-Tchai  a  day  later,  passes  a  humble 
donkey  driver,  belaboring  a  jaded  animal. 

No  human  eye  can  discern  the  deadly  import  to 
the  proud  city  of  the  crescent  of  the  papers  hidden 
in  the  cushion's  linings  of  the  rude  saddle. 

The  peasant  wanders  along  to  Goomri  unchal 
lenged.  Poverty  is  his  safeguard  !  The  best ! 

Abdallah,  seated  in  his  den  at  Goomri,  waits  for 
the  words  penned  by  Maritza  for  the  absent  man, 
on  whose  finger  flashes  her  ruby  ring.  Hassan  bears 
a  lett(?r  every  word  dear  as  a.  diamond  to  Schamyl. 

Gloomy  and  lowering  is  the  brow  of  Moussa 
Pacha,  when  he  listens  to  Ghazee's  frantic  ravings. 
He  bastinadoes  his  louts  of  domestics  uselessly. 
The  Rose  has  vanished  in  mystery. 

Moussa  was  away  on  duty  himself.  The  two  serv 
ing-women  are  gone,  none  know  whither.  They  did 
well  to  flee  the  vengeance  of  the  murderous  Ghazee. 

Attracted  by  some  fellow-servant's  jabber — they 
had  only  returned  to  find  Maritza's  rooms  empty. 

Every  guardsman,  each  swart  eunuch,  swears  that 
no  one  passed  the  portals  !  The  two  refugees  dare 
not  openly  complain.  There  is  danger  in  their 
situation. 

Fear  of  the  mighty  Mukhtar  ties  Ghazee's  tongue. 
For  the  great  Moslem  general  is  a  loyal  soldier ! 
Should  he  discover  the  princess  in  Kars,  she  would 
be  openly  held  as  a  political  prisoner  of  rank.  Ghazee 
would  then  lose  her  forever. 

Ghazee  vainly  sends  his  trusted  renegade  officers 
by  day  and  night  searching  over  the  town.  There 
is  not  a  trace  of  the  proud  beauty — no  sign  of  her 
bewitching  loveliness. 


PRINCE    SCHAMYL  S   WOOING.  193 

If  the  earth  had  opened  for  her,  the  mystery  were 
no  greater.  She  is  lost  among  a  hundred  thousand. 

Countess  Vronsky  eyes  askance  the  lowering 
brow  of  her  careless  lover.  As  each  night  settles 
down  on  Kars,  its  chill  darkness  seems  to  drag  her 
down  toward  the  chasm  of  the  rushing  Kars  Tchai. 
An  impending  doom  appals  her.  But  Ghazee  is 
only  gloomily  silent.  He  suspects  nothing! 

The  days  drag  on  wearily.  Maritza,  in  seclusion, 
hugs  to  her  heart  the  joyous  news  that  her  letters 
to  her  lover  have  safely  reached  Abdallah. 

Faithful  Hassan  (once  more  the  ragged  camel- 
driver)  haunts  the  courtyard  of  the  monastery  and 
convent. 

A  dozen  times  over  he  tells  the  glowing  girl  the 
stirring  history  of  Ahmed's  battle  with  the  Kurds. 
Her  pulse  bounds  with  pride.  She  can  wait  with  a 
patient  heart.  Her  lover  is  a  hero. 

Hassan  Bey  comes  not.  An  awful  punishment 
hangs  over  his  slightest  misstep.  He  would  die  in 
the  torments  of  the  damned  !  His  messages  to 
Maritza  are  borne  by  the  disguised  Circassian. 

On  her  knees,  before  the  image  of  the  dear  Christ 
who  died  for  us  all,  Maritza  prays  nightly  for  her 
champion. 

A  message  from  Abdallah  tells  her  Ahmed  Scha- 
myl  is  now  threading  the  wild  defiles  of  Daghestan. 
It  is  Abdallah's  sage  advice  to  conceal  her  hiding- 
place  even  from  the  Russians  until  the  army  reaches 
Kars.  For  then  the  sword  will  set  her  free. 

Free  she  is  from  the  traitor — unless  some  fatal 
accident  arrives. 

Hassan  cheers  her  daily  with  his  presence.  He 
13 


194  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

will  stay  to  the  last.  Watching  over  her,  he  can 
slip  out  with  Hassan  Bey's  help,  and  guide  the 
rescuers  to  her  place  of  refuge.  The  prior  concurs 
in  the  evident  wisdom  of  this.  The  sanctity  of  the 
convent  is  assured  by  treaty  with  the  powers. 

Before  the  first  cannon's  roar  wakes  the  echoes 
on  the  Arpa  Tchai,  Princess  Maritza  prays  daily  for 
the  success  of  the  Russian  arms.  It  is  her  salva 
tion — that  fluttering  blue  and  white  cross. 


Far  up  in  the  awful  chasms  of  the  Caucasus, 
creeping  below  basalt  cliffs,  threading  gloomy  for 
ests,  scaling  nature's  battlements,  Ahmed  Schamyl 
sweeps  along  at  the  head  of  his  warlike  column. 
He  has  gazed  once  more  upon  lofty  Gunib — eight 
thousand  feet  in  air— his  own  mysterious  birth 
place. 

His  charger  paws  the  earth  where  once  the  em 
battled  Russian  army  received  his  father's  last  sur 
render.  Aul  Gunib  is  vacant  now  ;  only  a  few  old 
crones  linger  there. 

Far  above  on  the  cliff  stands  the  "  eagle's  nest," 
within  whose  walls  the  smile  of  that  lovely,  dreamy 
vision  of  childhood — his  mother — shone  upon  him 
in  the  years  gone  by.  A  nameless  angel !  The 
lovely  valleys  and  dells  are  all  silent.  The  fright 
ened  villagers  avoid  his  troops.  Silent  women,  shy 
children  alone  meet  him.  The  men  are  buried  in 
the  forest  to  avoid  conscription.  They  war  only  of 
their  free  will. 

Onward  to  the  great  keep  of  Himri,  where  Sul 
tan  Schamyl  lay  for  dead  after  its  terrific  storming 
by  Grabbe,  he  sweeps  through  the  budding  glories 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  195 

of  spring.  Ball  and  blade  could  never  kill  charmed 
Schamyl. 

Here  "  Khasi  Mollah  "  died,  whose  mystic  lore 
was  his  father's  awful  legacy.  By  a  charm  of  the 
Kabala,  Schamyl  of  the  "  shining  veil,"  at  this 
place,  escaped  again  the  red  death.  So  swear  the 
old  survivors  with  bated  breath. 

A  heap  of  gray  ruins  meets  his  eyes  when  the 
coursers  measure  four  days'  farther  march.  Here 
Sultan  Schamyl — priest,  magician,  leader,  general, 
and  bravo — was  the  only  one  who  left  the  burn 
ing  tower  alive.  Hamsad  Bey  died  there,  under  the 
vendetta  of  the  Tcherkess.  Schamyl  took  his  honors. 

Far  and  wide,  Ahmed  sweeps  over  the  romantic 
land,  where  forty  thousand  horsemen  once  owned 
the  sway  of  that  great  arch-rebel.  The  chief  of 
thirty  years'  war,  whose  name  he  bears,  has  made 
these  glades  historic. 

Prince  Ahmed  gathers  in  his  train  a  few  malcon 
tents.  He  finds  the  hill-dwellers  in  trembling  fear 
of  that  keen  sword  of  war  which  smites  both  ways. 

Yet  no  welcome  waits  his  path.  None  of  the 
children  of  the  thousands  who  died  for  his  royal 
father  throng  in  to  welcome  the  young  prince  of  the 
land. 

Is  it  the  subtle  influence  of  the  Kurdish  Free 
Masons,  who  .date  their  mysteries  back  to  ages 
before  the  days  when  the  Assyrian  scrolls  were 
moulded  ? 

Is  it  the  Kurdish  hatred  of  the  Russian,  or  the 
illicit  trade  in  the  beautiful  children  of  Circassia 
and  Georgia,  which  holds  the  people  away  ? 

No  ;  the  Kurds  are  in  both  Russian  and  Turkish 


196  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

pay.  It  is  not  local  sympathy;  for  in  1864  all  the 
Moslem  Tcherkess  crossed  the  lines  to  Turkey, 
when  the  Russian  flag  was  nailed  to  the  mast. 
Over  Circassia,  in  final  conquest,  the  Christian  faith 
triumphed. 

Maps  of  Europe  change  ;  heroes  live  their  brief 
day ;  but  Russia  never  loses  an  inch  of  blood- 
bought  ground.  There  is  a  strange  silence,  a  cold 
unrest,  in  the  lofty  mountain  homes  of  the  only  race 
on  God's  footstool  to  whom  courage  and  beauty 
are  a  never-failing  heritage. 

Here,  an  Emperor  of  Russia  vainly  sued  to  gain 
the  affections  of  these  "  dwellers  of  the  mist,"  after 
a  hereditary  war  of  two  hundred  years  had  brought 
them  to  bay,  but  never  to  their  knees. 

The  cherry  blossoms  hang  over  the  path  as 
Ahmed  Schamyl  rides  in  the  land  of  his  birth  over 
his  great  father's  fields.  March  gives  way  to  fra 
grant  April. 

Long  before  Byzantium  gave  its  name  to  new 
Rome,  centuries  before  Istambol  changed  the  cross 
for  the  crescent,  freedom  reigned  here  on  these 
sculptured  mountain  heights.  God's  own  sunlight 
and  the  sacred  Persian  fires  light  yet  the  crests  of 
the  awful  Circassian  peaks.  The  barriers  held  by 
these  peerless  swords  against  "  Timour  "  were  only 
broken  by  the  gallant,  patient  "  children  of  the 
Czar  " — the  soldiers  of  destiny.  The  Man  of  Aus- 
terlitz  foresaw  the  sweep  of  the  men  who  humbly 
kneel  before  their  white-robed  priest  when  the  bat 
tle  opens.  They  sing  the  regimental  hymns,  proudly 
marching  along  to  die  for  holy  Russia.  Devotees 
and  docile  heroes ! 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  197 

Only  England  sleeps,  while  the  world  is  waking 
to  the  onward  stride  of  all-conquering  Russia. 

Tiletti's  towers  rise  before  Prince  Ahmed.  There 
the  Sultan  escaped  General  Fesi  by  an  artifice  still 
staining  the  great  Schamyl's  honor.  He  surren 
dered  and  broke  his  oath,  taking  the  field  again. 
He  had  a  "  revelation  "  which  justified  his  du 
plicity  ! 

Over  the  field,  where  the  bones  of  Count  Ivil- 
itsch's  doomed  regiments  fell  under  the  keen  Tcher- 
kess  sword,  and  on  to  great  Akhmulgo,  the  column 
wearily  plods.  There,  on  the  heights  above  a  new 
Mokanna,  Sultan  Schamyl's  "  silver  veil  "  glittered 
on  a  servant's  brow.  The  poor  slave  died  a  mar 
tyr  ;  while  the  crafty  old  leader  himself  fled  down 
the  river  in  a  boat,  leaving  hecatombs  of  dead. 
The  victims  of  the  Russian  assault  mutely  attested 
his  third  great  "  miracle."  His  splendid  court  life 
of  five  years  made  Akhmulgo  a  dazzling  palace. 
The  bats  flit  through  the  crumbling  windows  now. 
Prince  Ahmed  asks  not  to  see  the  gloomy  keep 
wherein  old  Schamyl's  own  mother  died,  under  his 
hand,  by  the  lash.  This  mystic  fraud,  the  awful 
barbarity,  the  foul  ingratitude  chills  the  bones  of 
the  son  of  the  chief  of  the  "  Sunis."  Nature  abhors 
the  human  monster  who  emulated  Nero ;  yet  Chris 
tian  England  and  France  sent  money,  swords  of 
honor,  and  munitions  of  war  to  this  man.  His  own 
aged  mother  died  under  his  rhinoceros  lash,  as  a 
martyr  to  Moslem  superstition. 

Dargo,  with  its  gloomy  history  of  a  three  years' 
siege,  rises  before  him.  General  Grabbe,  after  the 
terrific  battle  in  the  dark,  tangled  woods  there, 


198  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

returned  to  the  Neva  to  answer  the  question  of  a 
Czar,  borrowed  from  a  Roman  emperor's  anguish, 
11  Where  are  my  legions  ?  "  And  yet,  stern  Woron- 
zoff  finally  drove  Schamyl  from  these  heights, 
under  the  pelting  butchery  of  a  desperate  as 
sault. 

Over  the  broad  plains  of  the  "  Kabardas  "  (where 
the  countless  Tcherkess  horse  once  swept  in  pride, 
led  by  the  Silver  Veil),  Ahmed  Schamyl  leads  his 
watchful  men  to  the  river  ford.  Here  two  great 
armies  witnessed  the  delivery  of  his  brother  "  Jamal- 
Eddin  "  to  the  sultan  after  a  long  captivity.  It  was 
here  the  gentle  Russian  princesses  were  restored 
after  seven  years  in  Schamyl's  cruel  hands. 

In  all  this  weary  round — in  the  marches  in  cold 
and  mist,  in  the  midnight  darkness,  at  the  dawn — 
a  kindly  pair  of  woman's  eyes,  "  weary  yet  tender," 
beam  on  the  young  prince. 

He  hears  in  the  sigh  of  the  winds  the  one  loving 
refrain,  "  Ahmed,  my  son  !  " 

It  is  his  fairy  mother  who  speaks  to  him. 

The  slender  wand  of  memory  is  broken.  Yet 
around  the  cradle  of  his  infancy  that  gracious  pres 
ence  lingers  to  hallow  and  to  bless. 

If"  life  is  but  a  progress  from  the  breast  of  one  fond 
woman  to  that  of  another,"  Ahmed  Schamyl  claims 
a  divided  duty.  Yet  his  mother's  memory  is  only 
a  gracious  shade — a  fleeting  charm,  like  colors  of 
the  dying  day. 

On  past  the  castellated  gorges  of  the  mountain 
ranges,  out  of  the  land  where  the  religious  exalta 
tion  of  "  Ben  Mohammed  Schamyl  "  still  appals  the 
simple  warriors — far  from  Dargo's  stately  palaces 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  199 

(now  in  ruins,  or  tenanted  by  the  meaner  herd), 
Ahmed  journeys.  His  horses'  heads  are  turned  to 
ward  the  battle  lines. 

Shy  girls  in  white  mantles  and  silver-embroidered 
gowns,  their  dark  tresses  bound  with  silver  lace,  gaze 
kindly  on  the  youthful  leader.  The  heavy  fruit 
trees  fill  the  mountain  roads  with  fragrant  blossoms. 
It  is  the  time  of  the  singing  bird.  The  painted 
pheasants  mate  in  the  forest  shade. 

In  little  villages  deputations  headed  by  the  aged 
welcome  the  Czar's  chosen  officer. 

On  still,  past  Tarku,  where  the  Russian  legions 
died,  over  the  nameless  graves  of  thousands  of  for 
gotten  soldiers,  Schamyl  speeds  to  the  dark  tryst  of 
the  Arpa-Tchai. 

At  "  Amir-Hadje  Yar "  he  views  the  old  hall 
where  a  single  Tcherkess  killed  three  Russian  gen 
erals  before  he  was  hacked  to  pieces  by  the  guard. 
The  mountain  lion  dies  hard. 

Camping  at  night,  Ahmed  wanders  alone  among 
the  mysterious  children  of  the  Tcherkess — the  land 
of  free  and  merry  girls,  who  proudly  ride  on  their 
lovers'  cruppers  ;,  the  land  where  a  woman's  face 
shines  openly  on  all  until  her  marriage  ;  the  land 
where  the  bridal  veil  covers  the  wife  forever ;  where 
the  husband  steals  as  a  lover  in  the  shades  of  night 
to  his  consort. 

By  day  the  man  is  busied  with  hospitality,  with 
wise  discourse-,  with  war,  or  the  songs  of  war.  It  is 
only  the  evening  star  which  brings  him  homeward. 
A  land  of  the  sword  and  spear,  of  the  chase  and 
mighty  woodcraft — Circassia  ! 

Jealousy  guards  with  a  keen  sword  these  moun- 


200  PRINCE   SCHAMYL'S    WOOING. 

tain  thresholds.  Revenge,  the  vendetta,  and  kismet 
are  the  awful  trinity  of  Circassian  honor. 

Blood  is  here  atoned  by  blood  alone,  or  a  solemn 
tribal  settlement.  The  sense  of  personal  honor  is 
fiercely  fantastic.  Here  the  young  humbly  respect 
and  fear  the  old  ;  here  the  wife  crouches  under  the 
awful  frown  of  her  liege  lord. 

Purchased  brides  meet  their  lords,  with  open 
hearts.  The  forlorn  widow  is  given  away  to  some 
member  of  the  clan  who  will  shelter  her.  Alas 
for  the  widows ! 

Here,  in  Circassia,  where  the  groom  rips  the 
bridal  corsage  with  a  sharp  dagger,  where  the  play 
of  war  heightens  the  festivity  of  the  wedding  day, 
among  these  olive-faced,  dark-eyed,  Grecian  beau 
ties,  Schamyl  dreams  always  of  the  starry-eyed  one 
who  pines  for  him  behind  the  black  walls  of  Kars  ! 

The  pretty  Tcherkess  lasses,  in  scarlet  bonnets 
and  floating  braids,  with  gay  jackets  laced  with 
silver,  natty  skirts  and  broad  girdles,  smile  on  him 
in  vain. 

Dainty  hands  with  slender  wrists  wave  unheeded 
their  salutations  to  the  lord  of  the  Tcherkess.  He 
heeds  not  the  quaintly  dyed  finger-nails,  the  won 
derful  lace  mittens  of  gossamer. 

Schamyl  rides  the  lanes  unmoved.  In  vain  the 
wild  game  spring  up  under  his  charger's  feet.  He 
goes  to  the  chase  of  men.  Village  maid  and  bloom 
ing  matron  tempt  not  his  eye.  He  is  a  faithful  and 
pining  lover. 

He  seems  to  see  before  him  the  presence  of  his 
great  father — a  white-haired  chieftain,  superbly 
mounted,  in  silk  vestments  and  silver-steel  chain 


PRINCE   SCHAMYL'S    WOOING.  2OI 

mail.  His  gray  eyes  are  shining  under  a  golden  hel 
met.  At  his  side  the  priceless  sabre  of  Omar  swings. 
Pistols  and  the  death-dealing  rifle,  his  jewelled  belt- 
dagger,  and  the  shining  white  mantle,  lend  their  aid 
to  his  martial  presence.  A  god  among  men  ! 

Beneath  the  princely  rider,  the  fleetest  steed  of 
the  Caucasus  bears  the  blue  velvet  saddle,  richly 
crested  with  its  jewels  and  silver  trappings.  The 
black  enamel  of  the  Caucasus  hides  the  glitter  of 
the  metals.  The  shade  of  Sultan  Schamyl  beckons 
his  son  to  the  red  field  of  honor. 

In  all  these  visions,  in  the  proud  mystic  stories  of 
his  race,  Prince  Ahmed  (dreaming  on  his  horse's 
neck)  soon  forgets  his  majestic  warrior  father,  his 
princely  brother  who  died  as  the  son  of  a  king,  and 
thinks  only  of  Maritza's  tender  dark  eyes.  Over  his 
slumbers  hovers  the  sweet  womanly  face,  which, 
even  here,  beneath  the  singing  pines — after  long 
years  have  chilled  her  gentle  heart — whispers,  in  the 
one  unselfish  love  of  life,  "  Ahmed,  my  son  !  " 

Down,  like  an  eagle  in  his  fall,  swings  the  impa 
tient  lover  to  the  valley  of  the  Arpa-Tchai.  Past 
villages  where  stately  men,  in  Persian  caftans  of 
bright  hue,  sit  among  their  many  fair  wives  ;  through 
the  land  where  Persian,  Russian,  Arabic,  Armenian, 
and  Turkish  voices  mingle ;  past  the  tender-budded 
groves,  where  the  returning  birds  sing  in  the  cold, 
pale  moonlight — Schamyl  marches,  his  outpost  duty 
done. 

In  another  month  this  land  will  be  a  very  paradise. 
But  his  sabre  will  flash  in  the  sunlight  of  the 
Euphrates.  Mountains  of  marble  and  alabaster, 


202  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

dim  reaches  of  witching  woodland,  lovely  meadows 
where  the  roses  bud,  stay  him  not.  The  veiled 
women  sigh  over  his  princely  bearing.  He  gallops 
(hounded  on  by  love,  in  its  delicious  torment)  to  the 
black  plains  of  the  Araxes,  where  the  singing  bugle 
calls  thousands  now  to  their  death.  Steadily  thread 
ing  the  river,  across  which  he  can  see  the  Kurdish 
camels  playing  around  the  conical  skin  tents  of  these 
men  of  blood,  he  rides  in  at  the  head  of  two  thou 
sand  men,  to  hear  Melikoff  send  the  first  shotted 
defiance  of  the  Czar  across  the  still  waters. 


BOOK  III. 
WINNING   THE    ROSE. 


CHAPTER    X. 

THE  CANNONS  SPEAK. — HASSAN  BEY'S  MESSAGE.— 
MOUSSA'S  BATTLE  IN  THE  NIGHT. — FACE  TO 
FACE. — TURNS  OF  THE  TIDE. — THE  MEDJIDIEH 
REDOUBT. 

OUT  of  the  gloomy  forests,  where  from  their  high 
stockaded  forts  the  Russians,  goaded  to  madness, 
sallied  on  their  wild  foemen,  the  column  swings 
past  the  Golgotha  where  Grabbe's  thousands  died 
under  the  dashing  attacks  of  the  Tcherkess  horse. 
Away,  far  away  from  the  rocky  gorges,  where  the 
terrible  war-cry  of  the  children  of  Schamyl  broke 
on  the  silent  night,  Ahmed  leads  his  troopers  to  the 
black,  stony  plains  of  the  Arpa-Tchai. 

The  cannon  thundering  loud  as  he  nears  Goomri 
bring  his  men  to  a  gallop.  The  guns  of  the  for 
tress  are  covering  the  crossing.  His  thirty  poor 
captured  conspirators,  under  guard,  are  left  to  the 
mercies  of  the  Provost  of  Goomri.  He  draws  his 
men  into  line.  The  great  army  is  on  the  march. 


204  PRINCE   SCHAMYL'S   WOOING. 

The  forces  are  crossing  the  Arpa-Tchai,  for  it  is 
the  24th  of  April.  War  is  declared  ! 

As  Schamyl  leads  his  fierce  riders  up  to  the  terre- 
plein  of  the  fortress,  he  meets  Gronow  in  field 
attire.  His  own  express  rider  preceded  him  by 
three  hours. 

"  I  am  directed,  General,  to  lead  your  men  across 
and  place  you  in  the  advance,"  Gronow  cries. 

There  is  a  pontoon  bridge  over  the  Arpa-Tchai. 
Before  Schamyl  can  collect  his  thoughts  he  is  on 
the  Turkish  side.  It  is  now  a  war,  "  a  1'outrance," 
between  the  men  who  built  the  Ottoman  Empire  of 
the  Dardanelles  on  the  crumbling  ruins  of  broken 
thrones,  and  the  Czar's  troops.  Persian,  Roman, 
Greek,  Hun,  the  Slav,  the  Arabs  under  the  great 
golden  sceptre  of  Haroun  al  Raschid,  give  way  to 
the  dogged  Moslems,  who  fight  to-day  the  Russ  of 
the  North! 

For  two  hundred  years  of  the  first  thousand  of 
the  Christian  era  the  Russians  sought  the  city  vainly, 
battling  four  times  in  siege  for  Constantinople. 

The  race  of  Alexis  Comnenus,  with  their  brief 
glory,  gave  way,  after  two  hundred  years  of  storm, 
to  Michael  Palaeologus  and  his  heirs. 

In  the  fifteenth  century  the  patter  of  the  feet  of 
Turkish  horse  sounded  first  outside  the  sacred 
walls.  Amurath's  weak  assault  was  followed  up  by 
fiery  Mahomet,  who  grasped  the  Golden  City  in 

1453- 

Unchallenged  queen  of  the  world  in  the  four 
teenth  and  fifteenth  centuries,  the  Russians  and 
English  together  assaulted  it  unsuccessfully  in  1770. 
How  fickle  the  faith  of  allied  princes!  In  1807 


PRINCE    SCHAMYL  S   WOOING.  2O5 

Admiral  Duckworth  led  the  English  fleet  to  useless 
slaughter  under  the  seraglio  batteries  alone.  Now 
the  Russian  fights  his  old  ally  England  in  Asia 
under  cover. 

As  Ahmed  rides  out,  spreading  his  light  cavaliers 
before  the  embattled  hosts  of  the  Czar  on  this 
bright  April  day,  he  grimly  smiles  to  think  that 
nothing  will  keep  the  children  of  the  great  Peter, 
the  heirs  of  the  mighty  Catherine,  out  of  the 
Golden  Horn.  A  shadow  falls  on  his  mind ! 

His  sabre  drops  loosely  in  its  strap,  for  he  re 
members,  with  a  thrill,  the  crash  of  the  casements 
when  he  stood  with  wily  Ignatief  where  the  English 
boat  swung,  a  gloomy  black  mass  on  the  waters,  that 
starlit  night  in  the  Golden  Horn. 

England  fights  for  the  Turk  now  ! 

"  Defender  of  the  Faith!"  Which  faith?  O 
wearer  of  the  crown  of  the  Empire  of  the  Seas! 
Cross  or  Crescent  ?  No  !  The  faith  of  the  English 
is  the  faith  in  the  sanctity  of — the  British  pocket. 

Schamyl  watches  his  swift  skirmishers  press  to 
the  front  in  the  beautiful  work  of  the  Russian 
cavalry.  He  turns  to  Gronow. 

"  You.have  news  for  me?" 

"  Yes,  General,"  his  old  friend  says,  with  an  evi 
dent  respect.  Schamyl's  heart  is  with  Maritza. 
He  hears  not  the  salutation  "  General."  Beyond 
his  front,  in  the  advance,  lie  closed  columns  of  solid 
white-capped  regiments,  squadrons  of  heavy  dra 
goons,  and  parked  siege  batteries,  with  an  unending 
black  mass  of  baggage  trains. 

Light  batteries  whirl  by,  going  into  action  with 
lightning  speed. 


206  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

Gronow  hands  him  several  letters  and  despatches. 
On  the  broad  plain  before  them,  for  they  have  now 
covered  the  slower  movement  of  the  heavy  troops, 
a  dropping  fire  shows  that  the  sons  of  the  Sultan 
are  "  en  presence." 

Schamyl  gathers  his  charger.  "  To  the  front !  " 
Gronow  rides  across  his  path. 

"  Pardon  me  !  Prince,  you  are  a  general  now. 
You  cannot  charge  with  your  own  skirmish  line,  like 
a  trooper." 

Schamyl's  eyes  seek  his  in  wonder.  Gronow 
points  to  the  letters. 

Calling  to  a  captain,  who  gallops  to  the  front, 
Gronow  resolutely  detains  the  prince. 

Ahmed  opens  the  first  document.  It  recites  his 
appointment  as  brigadier-general  of  cavalry.  His 
tall  form  rises  proudly  in  the  saddle.  A  general, 
and  a  wearer  of  the  white  cross  ! 

The  cracking  rifles  of  his  troops  salute  the  Grand 
Duke's  youngest  general. 

The  next  letter  he  opens  is  from  Abdallah.  It  is 
only  a  simple  slip  of  paper,  with  a  single  withered 
red  rose.  The  simple  words  are  traced  there : 

"  Ahmed,  my  lover  !  " 

His  eyes  are  dim.  The  soldier-lover's  heart  bounds 
with  j^oy. 

In  a  few  moments  the  scrawling  characters  of  Ab 
dallah  himself  are  deciphered.  Schamyl  knows  now 
that  his  love  waits  for  him  behind  the  walls  of  Kars. 
She  is  there  in  the  blue  horizon  to  the  southwest 
— and  thither  rolls  the  tide  of  war. 

Thrusting  the  papers  in  his  tunic,  the  young  gen 
eral  hoarsely  whispers : 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  207 

"  Forward  !     For  Maritza's  sake  !     On  !  " 

He  gives  the  fretting  black  the  rein.  He  rides 
along  his  line  under  the  cheers  of  the  troops,  who 
have  caught  the  welcome  news. 

In  an  hour  Gronow  and  Schamyl  are  seated  under 
a  plane  tree.  The  light  troops  have  swept  far  off, 
clearing  a  zone  to  the  front.  Schamyl's  eyes  are 
proudly  fixed  on  the  flashing  sabres  of  his  brigade. 
It  is  a  knightly  command. 

Ten  more  sotnias  give  him  the  full  present  of  his 
imperial  master— a  peerless  command  of  his  own 
wild  liegemen. 

Now  he  knows  that  the  right  column  of  the  army 
has  thrown  itself  toward  Ardaban  ;  that  the  dash 
ing  Tergukassoff  from  Erivan  is  marching  with  tiger 
tread  on  Bayazid.  Along  the  Danube,  two  hun 
dred  thousand  Russians  press  over  the  swamps  to 
ward  the  yet  undefiled  trenches  of  Plevna. 

For  Ignatief  and  Orloff,  Gortschakoff  and  Schow- 
aloff,  have  laid  down  the  pen.  The  sword  alone  rules 
now-  From  Kirscheneff  the  veteran  Czar  Alexan 
der,  with  Ignatief  and  Dolgourouki,  hastens  toward 
the  Danube  with  a  glittering  personal  train  of  four 
hundred  cavaliers  of  the  household. 

The  protocol  was  uselessly  agreed  to  by  the 
powers. 

The  Turk  has  resolutely  refused  the  pressure  of 
the  powers,  and  will  not  sign.  War  to  the  knife ! 
It  is  now  Russia  against  the  Turk. 

The  first  rifle  shot,  with  its  puff  of  feathery  smoke, 
blew  away  the  relics  of  "  protocol  "  and  "  confer 
ence,"  of  "  negotiation  "  and  "  wise  discussion." 

For  the  grass  is  waving  now,  the  roads  are  firm, 


2o8  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

the  skies  are  balmy,  and  the  harvest  of  blood  is 
ready  for  the  sabre  sickle. 

But  one  brief  week  ago  Count  Ignatief  joined  his 
imperial  master  at  KirchenerL  The  English  falter 
and  stand  mute,  while  the  Russian  legions  pour  into 
the  open  gateways  of  the  East. 

Poor  Burnaby  threw  himself  desperately,  in  later 
years,  on  the  Abyssinian  spears.  He  died  in  vain  for 
England's  might  ;  his  warning  voice  was  unheard. 

Schamyl  knows  that  if  the  cabinet  of  St.  Peters 
burg  sees  the  Russian  eagles  on  Batoum  and  Kars, 
on  Ardaban  and  Bayazid,  there  it  will  stay,  blood 
hallowed  in  victory  forever. 

For  Constantinople  the  Czar  can  wait.  The  future 
has  its  mysteries. 

But  the  swinging  car  of  Destiny  rolls  thither 
apace. 

Schamyl,  seated  with  Gronow,  inspects  the  cower 
ing  prisoners  brought  in  by  his  line. 

He  learns  from  them  that  the  cavalry  of  Moussa 
and  Ghazee  Schamyl  are  in  his  front. 

Leaving  Gronow  to  his  merry  chat  with  the  vic 
torious  officers,  Prince  Schamyl  walks  aside  in  the 
shadows  of  the  night.  The  army  has  safely  crossed. 

Maritza's  eyes  shine  on  his  shadowed  heart. 

The  Czar's  hosts  battle  for  a  new  kingdom,  on  the 
old  roads  where  Xenophon  marched  his  unflinching 
Greeks  back  to  the  blue  and  beloved  sea.  From 
these  storied  waters  the  white-limbed  Venus  rose 
to  hold  all  men  in  thrall.  Schamyl  fights  for  honor, 
his  only  prize,  and  the  hand  of  the  defenceless  girl 
who  is  praying  for  him  now  behind  those  rocky 
parapets  under  the  frowning  Kara  Dagh. 


PRINCE    SCHAMYL  S   WOOING.  209 

The  empress  of  his  soul !  The  dark-eyed  beauty, 
whose  withered  rose  rests  upon  his  throbbing  heart. 
It  is  a  summons  and  a  talisman. 

He  joins  the  dashing  staff  officer  Gronow,  who 
hailed  him  first  as  "  General."  By  his  side  a  horse 
man  is  dismounting.  In  the  flickering  light  of  the 
camp-fire,  he  recognizes  gallant  Tarnaieff. 

The  "  dragoman "  has  given  way  now  to  .the 
hardy  "  soldier,"  who  .exclaims  joyfully  : 

"  Prince  !   We  will  ride  into  Kars  together  !  " 

The  wailing  bugle  sends  the  forward  lines  to  the 
silence  of  rest.  Only  the  watchful  pickets  and 
silent  videttes  strain  their  nerves  to  catch  the  mys 
terious  voices  of  the  night.  Before  Schamyl's  limbs 
are  relaxed  from  the  ride  of  this  eventful  day,  the 
reveill^  is  sounding. 

A  messenger  is  at  his  side  on  the  line  of  the 
bivouac.  He  has  grasped  a  treasure  richer  than 
gold  and  gems. 

It  is  a  letter  from  Maritza,  who  hears  now  from 
her  convent  refuge  the  dull  boom  of  the  cannon  at 
the  ford. 

Hassan,  the  servitor,  greets  his  lord,  and  waits  to 
show  him  a  secret  way  to  scale  the  beetling  heights 
of  the  Kara  Dagh.  For  his  argus  eyes  are  every 
where. 

No  foot  of  the  thirty  miles  toward  Kars  but 
trebles  itself  under  the  princely  lover's  impatience. 
Shall  he  ever  see  her  beloved  face  again  ? 

His   renegade  brother  in   his  front  !     Schamyl's 

brow  grows  stern.     Alas !     Even  with  the  goddess 

of  victory  smiling,  it   will   be   long  months   before 

Kars  can  be  reduced.     Mighty  Paskiewitch  spent  a 

14 


210  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

year  in  1828  and  1829  to  carry  the  double  eagle  in 
victory  over  the  road  now  open  to  his  horse. 

And  Mukhtar  Pacha  is  a  lion  in  the  path,  with  fifty 
thousand  armed  men.  Kars  bristles  with  heavy 
guns. 

Ahmed  Schamyl's  heart  is  filled  with  one  holy 
purpose.  Ghazee  is  in  his  front.  To  search  the 
field  and  scatter  his  renegades,  to  save  the  innocent 
girl  he  dragged  from  her  home — this  is  the  heritage 
of  the  last  bitter  two  months  of  agony. 

When  Sultan  Schamyl  blazed  in  glory  at  Dargo, 
holding  royal  state,  three  wives  reigned  over  the 
palaces,  before  whose  crested  slopes  twenty  thou 
sand  Russian  corpses  lay  in  the  three  years'  siege. 
By  the  dark  mystery  of  his  birth,  Ghazee  seems  to 
have  been  his  foe  from  the  moment  of  his  father's 
death.  They  never  were  brothers  of  the  heart. 

An  undying  bitterness,  a  hatred  born  of  fanati 
cism,  the  scorn  of  a  Moslem  for  the  accursed  Giaour, 
has  been  Ghazee's  only  brotherhood.  Is  it  the 
succession  to  the  shadowy  coronet  of  the  warrior 
prince  which  galls  him  ? 

Riding  out  to  a  knoll  where  a  headquarters  en 
sign  marks  the  commander-in-chief  s  marquee,  Scha 
myl  receives  his  orders  from  General  Dutrovskoi. 
He  is  the  chief  of  staff  of  the  princely  commander 
Loris  Melikoff. 

The  Grand  Duke  Nicholas,  at  Tiflis,  holds  the 
nominal  command,  surrounded  by  every  enjoyment. 
But  the  iron  truncheon  of  battle  is  wielded  by  Loris 
Melikoff,  his  keen  eye  fixed  on  his  own  rising  star. 

"  Prince  Schamyl,  your  brigade  will  be  held  for 
special  service,  as  the  reserve  of  the  main  advance. 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  211 

Your  task  will  be,  especially,  to  watch  and  counter 
act  the  movements  of  Moussa's  Kurds  and  renegade 
Circassians.  They  all  know  the  ground.  We  rely 
on  you,  General,  to  cut  them  up. 

"  I  am  instructed  by  his  Highness  the  Grand  Duke 
Nicholas  to  say  that  your  new  rank  is  a  reward  for 
your  splendid  fight  on  the  Arpa,  and  your  successful 
guarding  of  our  left  flank  and  rear  in  your  long  sc©ut. 
By  the  way,  General,  I  suggest  that  the  uniform  of 
your  grade  will  become  you." 

Escaping  from  a  storm  of  congratulations,  Schamyl 
gallops  off  to  his  own  troops. 

Gronow's  thoughtfulness  has  provided  him  with 
his  campaign  baggage. 

Surrounded  by  the  officers  of  his  hastily  chosen 
staff,  Prince  Ahmed  sadly  misses  the  ubiquitous  old 
Hassan,  for  that  veteran  servitor  is  a  master  of 
the  arts  of  making  camp  comfortable. 

The  days  fly  by.  All  along  the  valley  of  the  Arpa, 
hurrying  hosts  gather  for  the  shock  of  battle.  Tele 
grams  tell  of  the  movement  on  the  Danube.  The 
Kurds  and  Tcherkess  are  called  out.  From  Poti, 
Sughum  Kale,  and  Ardaban  the  news  of  sharp  battle 
rolls  along. 

Seventeen  thousand  men,  crossing  at  Ungheri, 
wait  for  General  Melikoff's  wild  dash  on  Ardaban. 
Tiflis  is  in  panic.  The  Turkish  host  is  magnified  into 
vast  proportions. 

Ahmed  Schamyl,  drilling  and  exercising  his 
splendid  riders,  is  in  the  saddle  from  dawn  to  dark. 
He  inflames  the  haughty  pride  of  his  officers. 

They  are  to  meet  in  single  combat  the  chosen 
irregulars  of  the  Turks.  Soon  a  swift  courier  takes 


2i2  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

to  all-knowing  Abdallah,  Schamyl's  entreaties  for 
secret  information  of  Moussa's  and  Ghazee's  every 
movement. 

It  is  their  merciless  horse  he  wishes  to  meet  in  the 
open  field.  By  day,  with  his  glass,  he  can  see  the 
cone-shaped  Kibitka  tents  of  the  Turkish  camps. 
"  His  dearest  foe  "  is  on  guard.  His  traitor  brother. 

Osman  Bey  glides  through  the  army,  in  his  serpent 
path,  as  chief  of  spies.  He  keeps  up  the  line  of 
Prince  Schamyl's  secret  intelligence. 

The  days  are  stirring  with  fray  and  skirmish.  At 
night,  by  the  camp-fire,  Ahmed  reads  the  brief  words 
of  his  beloved.  Still  dragging  suspense !  She  is  the 
loved  and  lost  ! 

Her  faded  rose  rests  upon  his  heart.  The  mystic 
red  rose  beloved  of  the  Turk !  Bom  of  a  drop  of 
Mohammed's  precious  blood,  it  is  the  lovely  theme 
of  their  daintiest  legends.  The  vulgar  may  not  touch 
its  sacred  petals.  Only  on  solemn  feasts  it  may  be 
plucked. 

The  precious  attar  distilled  from  its  bosom  con 
secrates  the  house  of  prayer,  and  sanctifies  the  body  of 
the  believer  as  a  chrism  of  the  holy  Prophet's  blood. 

Dear  as  the  red  rose  is  to  the  pious  Moslem,  who 
prays  before  it,  in  penance,  when  wounded  con 
science  stings  the  heart,  the  rose  which  Maritza's 
loving  hand  sends  him  as  a  token  is  holier  yet  to 
the  ardent  Circassian  lover. 

Her  gentle  hand  lends  it  a  charm  more  potent  than 
the  richest  drops  of  great  Mohammed's  veins. 

By  this  token  he  consecrates  himself  to  the  quest  of 
the  lovely  prisoner,  the  sweet  counterfeit  nun  of  Kars. 
He  will  win  the  living  Rose  or  die  in  seeking  her. 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  213 

Chafing  at  inaction,  Schamyl's  blood  bounds  when 
the  cheers  of  the  army  welcome  the  glorious  news  of 
the  day  of  May  17. 

Melikoff,  with  Komaroff's  column,  has  stormed 
Ardaban,  and  the  river  runs  red  with  the  enemy's 
blood.  Now,  to  the  front ! 

The  bugles  rouse  the  forces.  The  right  and  cen 
tre  columns  now  close  in. 

Stealing  into  Schamyl's  camp,  a  messenger  from 
Abdallah  brings  to  the  general,  news  which  makes 
his  heart  bound  in  mad  delight. 

Moussa  and  Ghazee  are  encamped  half  way 
between  Kars  and  the  front,  and  creep  nearer  for  a 
night  attack  on  the  Russian  cavalry. 

A  half-hour  conference  with  General  Melikoff  gives 
Schamyl  full  power  to  throw  himself  on  the  enemy 
at  his  will.  "  Smash  them  !  "  says  Loris. 

Dearer  than  the  tidings  cheering  his  soldier's  heart, 
of  the  rapid  advance  on  the  Danube  and  the  splendid 
capture  of  Bayazid,  is  the  latest  letter  from  Maritza, 
which  tells  in  burning  words  "what  the  mute  rose 
cannot  say.  For  its  fragrant  petals  are  silent. 

Hassan,  the  camel-driver,  haunts  the  camp  of  the 
Turkish  cavalry.  His  practised  eye  tells  him  of 
the  movements  day  by  day.  A  deserter  crawls  over 
the  lines  and  gives  the  Russian  pickets  the  tidings 
of  the  impending  attack. 

Day  by  day  Schamyl's  orderlies  ride  along  the 
front.  No  message  comes  yet  from  Hassan. 

Schamyl's  brigade  is  ready.  Gallant  Tarnaieff, 
who  knows  every  inch  of  the  ground,  volunteers  to 
go  as  guide  with  the  general,  who  has  not  yet 
fleshed  his  sword  in  open  battle  with  the  Turks. 


214  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

The  approaches  of  Kars  are  now  beleaguered. 
With  his  glass  Schamyl  sweeps  the  distant  hills 
of  the  Kara  Dagh. 

There  in  that  half  moon  of  crowded  houses  be 
low  the  high  mountains,  with  the  towering  citadel 
in  air,  a  blue  cleft  marking  the  path  of  the  rushing 
river  with  its  three  old  stone  bridges,  he  can  almost 
see  the  old  convent  where  Maritza  is  safely  hidden. 
Ghazee  knows  yet  nothing  of  her. 

From  the  Danube  to  Erzeroum,  at  Batoum,  Kars, 
and  along  the  whole  theatre  of  war,  the  roar  of 
fight  rolls  along. 

Day  by  day  Schamyl  impatiently  rides  his  outposts. 
No  movement  yet  of  his  enemy.     He  frets  while 
the  two  generals  watch  each    other    twenty  miles 
from  the  city. 

Those  ugly  outlooks  and  the  lofty  walls  crowded 
with  heavy  cannon  make  a  sudden  dash  impossible. 
To  sit  inactive  while  the  town  may  be  slowly 
bombarded,  is  madness.  His  heart  is  with  the  dear 
lonely  girl  who  hides  in  the  shadows  of  the  cloister. 
Shot  and  shell  may  rain  in  on  the  devoted  city. 
Her  fate  is  joined  with  that  of  the  other  Christians 
now  cooped  up.  For  the  Russian  lines  spread  far 
around.  A  general  battle  impends. 

Cautious  Mukhtar  stands  at  bay.  Melikoff 
watches  for  an  opening. 

Schamyl  leaps  into  the  saddle  when  an  order  is 
delivered  him  by  the  gallant  Gronow  to  head  a  col 
umn  of  cavalry  toward  the  Russian  outposts  sixteen 
miles  from  Kars. 

It  is  the  hope  that  the  Turks  may  attack  this 
force  which  causes  the  advance. 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  215 

Riding  with  the  impatient  Tarnaieff,  Ahmed  at 
nightfall  bivouacs  his  men,  without  fires,  around 
the  little  village  of  Beghli-Ahmed.  He  is  among 
foes.  A  few  sullen  Moslem  villagers  glower  from 
their  huts  at  the  invaders.  He  stations  a  guard 
to  hold  them. 

A  column  of  several  heavy  dragoon  regiments 
follows  a  few  miles  in  rear.  They  openly  encamp, 
and  leisurely  occupy  a  favorable  plain. 

Schamyl's  hidden  pickets  watch  the  woods  and 
valleys. 

Keeping  his  column  in  readiness,  the  prince  waits 
for  the  shadows  of  the  night  to  draw  his  men 
secretly  away  and  leave  the  other  camp  apparently 
exposed. 

Leaning  on  his  sword,  waiting  the  agreed  signal 
to  move  his  command  into  ambush,  the  young  gen 
eral  at  last  springs  to  his  feet.  The  guard  drags 
along  a  straggler.  He  protests  that  he  is  a  deserter. 

Fiery  Tarnaieff  sternly  says,  "  Shoot  him  in  the 
morning.  He  is  a  spy  !  " 

A  sergeant  approaches  the  commander.  He 
whispers  a  message. 

Schamyl,  in  briefest  words,  gains  the  wanderer's 
information. 

He  hands  Ahmed  a  little  twisted  billet.  Hassan 
Bey  speaks  at  last.  Russia's  red  gold  was  well  spent. 

"  Moussa  and  Ghazee,  with  four  thousand  men,  are  bearing  down 
to  attack  the  exposed  camp." 

Old  Sergeant  Hassan  also  sends  his  slyly  gleaned 
knowledge  of  their  march.  The  straggler  is  reliable. 

Dismissing  his  messenger  to  the  care  of  the  guard 
for  the  night,  the  Circassian  draws  his  men  off 


216 

quietly  to  prevent  any  chance  encounter.  He  sends 
Tarnaieff  on  a  gallop  to  give  the  other  commander 
the  news.  Four  thousand  crouch  in  readiness. 

In  ten  minutes  the  dark  squadrons  of  Ahmed's 
riders  are  swallowed  up  in  the  forest  gloom.  A  few 
men  are  scattered  across  a  high  defile,  a  half  mile 
away,  to  noiselessly  announce  the  passage  of  any 
heavy  force. 

Two  squadrons,  led  by  the  old  captain  of  his 
escort,  steal  silently,  holding  their  scabbards,  to  a 
dell,  whence  they  can  hold  the  pass  and  cut  off  the 
retreat  of  Moussa  and  Ghazee. 

In  solid  line,  Schamyl's  brigade  awaits  one  signal 
shot  from  a  light  rifle  gun. 

Behind  their  camp-fires,  where  a  few  men  linger 
as  a  decoy,  the  heavy  dragoons  wait  in  the  darkness 
until  the  enemy  pour  out  on  the  plain. 

Half  the  Russian  force  is  posted,  sabre  in  hand,  to 
receive  the  charge.  The  other  half,  mounted,  is 
drawn  off  the  roads  ready  to  charge  in  flank  at  their 
commander's  signal. 

Every  squadron  commander  has  his  orders.  Tar 
naieff  sits,  stern  and  watchful,  on  his  horse. 

Schamyl  has  told  him,  in  this  silent  waiting-hour, 
the  story  of  his,  love.  Ahmed's  last  words  were  : 

"  Stay  with  me  in  this  fight.  If  I  fall,  lead  the 
men  out  and  avenge  me.  General  Melikoff  will  rescue 
the  princess.  You  can  tell  him  all — only  if  I  go  down." 

Tarnaieff  mutely  presses  his  hand.  When  mid 
night  darkness  wraps  the  broad  valley,  closed  at  its 
farther  end  by  the  narrow  defile,  there  is  a  faint 
sound  like  the  rustling  of  a  breeze  through  a  heavy 
forest.  The  enemy  are  coming  ! 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  217 

Every  man  in  the  command  knows  the  renegades 
and  Kurdish  thieves  are  pouring  down  the  valley. 
They  hope  to  surprise  the  camp. 

The  shadows  deepen  on  the  road  four  hundred 
yards  away.  There  is  a  soft  trampling  of  feet. 
Crawling  back,  a  dozen  scouts  come  running  in. 
The  head  of  the  column  is  past. 

When  the  last  Turks  are  out  of  the  defile,  Schamyl 
waits  for  the  signal  volley  of  his  skirmishers. 

Ten  minutes  pass.  Every  rider  is  bending  for 
ward,  sword  in  hand.  A  rattling  fire  in  the  gap 
tells  of  the  passing  of  the  Moslem  rear. 

Swinging  his  sabre,  Ahmed  calls  out  "  Fire  !  "  to 
his  signal  gunner,  whose  light  piece  is  ready. 

The  ring  of  the  three-pounder  wakes  the  echoes 
of  the  night. 

By  its  flash,  a  confused  mass  is  seen  surging  over 
the  plains.  The  Tcherkess  dash  on  with  wild  cheers. 
The  sword  is  at  work. 

Racing  with  Tarnaieff,  Schamyl  rides  at  the  front, 
crying,  u  No  quarter  for  renegades  !  " 

His  left  squadrons  wheel  off  to  the  pass,  where 
they  join  the  squadron  cutting  off  the  retreat. 

Swinging  his  line,  as  previously  ordered,  Schamyl 
throws  his  brigade  on  the  yelling  and  bewildered 
foe.  It  is  a  surprise,  indeed  !  A  double  one  ! 

Far  to  the  front,  the  bitter  rattle  of  the  dragoons' 
rifles  tell  that  the  camp-lines  have  been  reached. 

A  wild  "  Hurrah  !  "  sweeps  down  the  wind.  The 
mounted  dragoons  are  hewing  away  at  the  Turks. 
In  the  mad  panic  of  flight,  Moussa's  force  wheels 
to  meet  the  awful  shock  of  Schamyl's  solid  squad 
rons.  By  the  dim  starlight,  the  white  caps  of  the 


2i8  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

Russian  troopers  alone  tell  friend  from  foe.  The 
Circassians  have  left  their  black  turbans  in  camp. 

Yells  and  savage  cries  rend  the  midnight  silence. 
The  crash  of  the  volleyed  firing  at  the  front  sounds 
high  above  the  shrieks  for  quarter. 

Schamyl  has  a  knot  of  a  dozen  faithful  troopers, 
who,  even  in  the  tangle  of'  the  slaughter,  close 
around  their  young  leader. 

Tarnaieff  clings  at  his  general's  side.  The  plain 
is  already  strewn  with  heaps  of  dead. 

Forming  up  in  knots,  the  Russians  hew  at  the 
frightened  mass,  now  pouring  backward  toward  the 
pass. 

Ahmed's  arm  is  weary  He  shouts  in  vain  direc 
tion  of  this  mad  battle  in  the  darkness.  He  watches 
by  the  flash  of  pistols  for  the  horse-tail  standard  of 
a  pacha. 

In  twenty  minutes,  the  four  regiments  of  Ghazee 
and  Moussa  are  a  bleeding  mass  of  frantic  fugitives. 
By  common  impulse,  they  pour  backward  toward  the 
pass.  The  Circassian  chaskas  drink  Moslem  blood. 

Schamyl  has  directed  the  squadron  commanders 
to  let  the  foe  break  backward  and  choke  the  pass. 

There,  they  will  be  met  by  the  rifles  and  sabres  of 
his  fresh  force  secretly  posted.  Tarnaieff  rallies  a 
hundred  men  beside  the  general.  The  retreating 
Turks  fall  on  all  sides.  Schamyl's  men  hang  on 
their  right  and  left  flanks,  cutting  them  down. 

The  dragoons,  now  all  in  the  saddle,  bear  down  in 
line,  driving  the  yelling  fugitives  to  the  gap. 

Breathing  for  a  few  moments,  Schamyl  waits  to 
form  his  body-guard  once  more,  and  hurl  them  on 
the  flank. 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  219 

A  clump  of  a  dozen  lances  twinkling  round  a 
pacha's  horse-tail  standard  struggles  toward  the 
watchful  knot  of  troopers  around  Schamyl. 

Other  Russians  have  dimly  seen  it.  A  crush  of 
the  white-capped  pursuers  presses  toward  it. 

Is  it  the  traitor  Ghazee's  ensign,  or  Moussa's  ? 

With  a  wild  cheer  Tarnaieff  yells,  "  Come  on  !  " 

Ahmed  rights  his  way  into  the  press.  It  is  a 
prize  to  win  Melikoff's  general  order. 

Down  go  man  and  horse  under  the  impact  of  that 
solid  charge. 

There  is  a  struggle  around  the  waving  symbol. 
With  the  voice  of  a  lion,  there  Ghazee  fights  at  bay. 
Ahmed  fights  for  the  lost  Rose  of  Tiflis.  He  forces 
his  way  to  the  standard-bearer.  Encumbered  with 
the  staff,  the  Turk  tries  to  turn.  The  wild  black 
horse  rears  as  Ahmed  swings  his  keen  sabre.  He 
tears  the  staff  from  the  falling  man,  for  Tarnaieff's 
blade  has  pierced  him  through. 

A  dozen  troopers  dash  at  the  burly  Ghazee,  who 
has  cleared  a  ring.  He  is  a  devil ! 

Schamyl  cheers  on  his  men.  He  hears  a  growl  of 
rage.  Ghazee's  splendid  horse  wheels  and  bears 
him  out  of  the  melee,  a  defeated  fugitive! 

In  an  hour  the  last  broken  remnants  of  the 
Turkish  hosts  have  passed  through  the  defile,  under 
the  merciless  rifle  fire  of  the  ambush. 

The  forests  and  woods  are  filled  with  the  panic- 
stricken  fugitives. 

Out  in  the  valley  the  wild  Russian  bugles  are 
sounding  the  recall.  For  Turkish  hosts  may  come 
up  to  aid  the  irregulars. 

Schamyl,    rallying   his   scattered    men    upon    the 


220  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING, 

main  road,  sends  a  squadron  down  to  stop  any  rash 
pursuit  over  the  ridge.  A  heavy  force  may  follow 
Ghazee. 

The  white  caps  fall  in  as  they  may. 

Two  hours  later  the  growing  dawn  shows  a  fearful 
field  of  carnage.  There  has  been  "  no  quarter." 

By  the  earliest  light  the  Turkish  fugitives  put 
miles  between  them  and  their  pursuers. 

Halting  for  a  rest  and  a  hasty  meal,  while  the 
plunder  and  captured  horses  are  secured,  the  two 
Russian  commanders  exchange  felicitations. 

Fourteen  hundred  of  the  enemy  lie  scattered  over 
five  miles  of  the  road.  It  is  a  crushing  blow. 

At  nightfall  Schamyl  dismisses  his  battle-wearied 
men  on  their  lines  in  front  of  the  main  Russian 
army.  The  standard  of  Ghazee  waves  in  triumph 
before  Ahmed's  tent.  Moussa  Pacha's  wild  irregu- 

o 

lars  spread  panic  to  the  walls  of  Kars  in  their  re 
treat. 

Prince  Ahmed  sends  Tarnaieff  to  the  command 
ing  general  with  his  trophy — traitor  Ghazee's 
standard. 

The  day  after,  MelikofT  sweeps  by  at  evening 
parade,  with  his  headquarter  staff.  He  sends  the 
men  his  verdict :  "  Brave  fellows  ! "  Schamyl  is 
cheered  to  the  echo. 

Twelve  days  later,  at  Taghir,  the  whole  main 
column  breaks  up  on  Mohammed  Pacha's  advanced 
half  of  Mukhtar's  forces.  Melikoff  sees  an  opening 
at  last.  After  a  bitter  battle  the  flying  Turks  leave 
three  thousand  dead  on  the  field,  besides  their  un 
fortunate  General  Mohammed. 

Schamyl  and  Tarnaieff  swept  up  the  hill  together 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  221 

in  that  splendid  charge  of  the  Russian  horse.      The 
blue  and  white  cross  is  in  the  ascendant. 

Mukhtar  with  half  his  army  stands  at  bay  at 
Zewin.  He  hastens  Ismail  the  Kurd's  forces  to 
join  him  from  Erzeroum.  It  is  salvation  to  him. 

In  these  days  of  fierce  battle  creeping  ever  nearer 
to  Kars,  Prince  Ahmed  with  an  aching  heart  faces 
the  Moslem  foe.  Maritza,  queen  of  hearts,  still  a 
captive  !  All  other  rewards  are  nothing. 

No  news  from  Kars.  The  secret  lines  even  are 
paralyzed.  Abdallah  is  silent  now. 

Glorious  news  from  Tergukassoff  brings  ringing 
cheers  from  the  Russian  line.  Mukhtar  himself  has 
been  routed  at  Eshek  Khaliass. 

The  centre  column  is  wild  with  joy.  Will  the 
great  stronghold  of  Erzeroum  surrender  before  Kars? 

Two  weeks  of  inactivity  brings  gloomy  news. 
The  tide  turns  !  Victory  veils  her  face  ! 

Though  Bayazid  is  in  the  Russian  hands,  Tergu- 
kassoff  is  beaten  on  the  bloody  hills  of  Zewin  before 
Erzeroum.  Mukhtar's  sword  is  wreathed  with 
laurel.  For  the  Turk  can  fight  ! 

Still  the  column  is  near  Kars,  and  the  Grand  Duke, 
in  person,  now  superintends  the  beginning  of  a  bit 
ter  siege.  The  batteries  are  thundering  away  at  the 
forts  of  the  city. 

Straining  his  eyes,  Schamyl  can  see  the  shells 
burst  over  the  town. 

Fortune  frowns  her  gloomiest  now.  Rumors  of 
disaster  on  the  Danube  appall  the  battling  soldiers 
of  the  Czar.  A  paralysis  unnerves  the  Russian 
leaders  everywhere.  The  long  days  wear  away  in 
grim  siege  and  dull  bombardment. 


222  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

Bayazid  is  retaken  by  Jthe  Turks.  Only  the  citadel 
holds  out.  The  garrison  is  massacred. 

The  July  and  August  days  are  days  of  defeat, 
sadness,  and  gloom.  Horror  follows  on  horror. 

Great  lines  are  furrowed  in  Schamyl's  face.  He 
hears  not  one  word  from  the  city  which  is  the 
hidden  refuge  of  his  beloved.  From  Circassia  the 
news  of  a  rebel  outbreak  drifts  down.  The  plains 
of  Armenia  are. alive  with  Kurdish  cut-throats. 

Wearied,  harassed,  and  baffled,  Schamyl's  spirits 
break  when  the  besiegers  suddenly  fall  back  from 
Kars.  In  retreat,  covering  a  dispirited  army,  Prince 
Ahmed  crosses  the  burning  plains,  now  one  vast 
graveyard.  Sickness,  stifling  heat,  privation,  and 
ruin  reign  over  the  Russian  camps. 

As  the  defeated  troops  file  back  over  the  hard- 
won  ground,  the  awful  news  of  the  terrible  butchery 
at  Plevna  dispirits  even  the  boldest  hearts. 

Melikoff's  brow  is  furrowed.  His  hawk  eyes  are 
haggard. 

The  cross  pales  before  the  crescent. 

Two  more  terrible  battles  of  indecisive  butchery 
wear  out  the  month*  of  August.  Will  it  ever  turn 
— this  tide  of  disaster?  And  Maritza!  God! — not 
a  word ! 

Schamyl  cannot  quit  his  post.  Detaching  Tar- 
naieff,  he  sends  him  to  Goomri  to  gain  from  Abdal- 
lah  any  news  of  the  imprisoned  Princess  Maritza. 

In  four  days  he  is  back.  Victorious  Mukhtar 
has  almost  driven  the  Russians  into  the  Arpa-Tchai. 
Even  Tiflis  is  no  longer  safe. 

Abdallah  at  last  sends  a  brief  message.  Maritza 
is  yet  in  shelter.  This  he  learns  only  from  Hassan 


PRINCE   SCHAMYL  S   WOOING.  223 

Bey,  for  the  whole  land  now  swarms  with  bandit 
plunderers.  Even  the  Russian  graves  are  opened 
by  the  wild  Kurds  ! 

Still  from  the  Danube  comes  the  news  of  useless 
slaughter.  Turkey  and  Russia  force  fresh  thousands 
to  the  front. 

On  October  11  to  15  the  fires  of  hell  light  up 
again  the  Aladja  Dagh.  Thousands  of  doomed  men 
dye  the  hills  with  their  blood.  The  Grand  Duke 
and  Melikoff  throw  their  whole  maddened  army  on 
Mukhtar  Pacha.  Ghazi  no  longer !  He  reels  back 
at  the  head  of  a  broken  host. 

Pushed  to  the  very  gates  of  Kars,  the  dispirited 
Pacha  leaves  ten  thousand  prisoners  in  the  hands 
of  the  Russians,  now  desperate  in  their  hour  of 
victory.  On  they  leap  !  The  ringing  siege  guns 
roar  once  more  !  Fifteen  thousand  defeated  Turks 
are  cooped  up  in  high-walled  Kars,  which  is  now 
surrounded  on  all  sides.  The  Russian  batteries 
rain  a  fearful  fire  upon  the  doomed  city.  It  is  the 
beginning  of  the  end  ! 

Along  the  road  to  Erzeroum,  rallying  his  de 
feated  stragglers,  the  great-hearted  Pacha  retreats 
to  join  Ismail,  the  wild  Kurd,  and  stout  old  Faizi 
Kohlman  Pacha.  All  is  not  yet  lost.  The  Turk  at 
bay  is  a  hero. 

Schamyl,  ordered  in  hot  pursuit,  hangs  for  days 
upon  the  flanks  of  the  retreating  Moslems. 

Tarnaieff  with  him  urges  the  fiery  Tcherkess 
mercilessly  upon  their  foes.  Even  to  the  gates  of 
Erzeroum,  the  Circassian  sword  reeks  with  blood. 

Ah  !  Horrid  wavering  of  the  awful  balances  of 
war !  Before  Plevna,  mounds  of  severed  heads 


224  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

attest  the  fearful  slaughter  of  the  peerless  Russian 
grand  army.  The  sound  of  wailing  goes  up  alike  in 
the  land  of  the  crescent  and  of  the  cross.  Darkness 
descends  on  thousands  of  Russian  households.  Is 
the  road  to  Asia  worth  all  this? 

Sick  of  carnage,  weary  at  heart,  Schamyl  led  the 
terrific  assault  on  November  4,  which  sent  Mukhtar 
behind  the  walls  of  Erzeroum  with  a  loss  of  ten 
thousand.  The  Moslem  at  bay  appeals  to  his 
prophet.  The  dervishes  wail  in  the  mosques. 

The  crescent  droops  under  these  fearful  blows  at 
Kars  and  Erzeroum.  Kurd  and  bandit  flee  from 
the  plains  of  Anatolia. 

On  the  night  after  the  great  defeat  of  the  Turks 
at  Erzeroum,  Schamyl  and  Tarnaieff  sit  by  their 
camp-fire.  A  courier  rides  up  and  hands  Prince 
Ahmed  a  letter.  It  is  the  first  tidings  in  three 
weary  months  from  Princess  Maritza. 

Her  lines  are  few  : 

"  I  am  here  unhurt  in  the  awful  bombardment.  Every  one  says 
the  city  soon  will  fall.  By  the  love  you  bear  me,  Ahmed,  come  as 
soon  as  you  can  to  my  rescue.  Old  Hassan  will  guide  you.  My 
Ahmed  !  come  to  me  !  I  am  yours  to  death.'  MARITZA." 

There  are  streaks  of  gray  in  Schamyl's  raven 
locks.  For  three  months  he  has  been  under  arms, 
day  and  night.  Fifty  skirmishes  and  combats  and 
a  dozen  battles  have  made  him  callous  to  carnage. 
His  blood  has  flowed  more  than  once. 

Will  Erzeroum  fall  ?  He  can  then  lead  his  trium 
phant  horse  back  to  Kars.  Maritza  waits  him  there. 

Even  if  his  own  troops  cannot  be  spared,  he  will 
ask  to  join  in  the  Kars  assault.  Batoum,  Ardaban, 
Bayazid,  are  all  now  in  Russian  hands.  On  the. 


PRINCE  SCUAMYL'S  WOOING.  225 

Danube,  starving   Plevna  totters   to   its   fall.     The 
end  cometh.     The  camp  is  dreaming  in  silence. 

Tarnaieffs  noble  face  shines  out  by  the  camp-fire 
in  deep  thought.  He  has  thrown  himself  on  a  roll 
of  blankets.  A  gloomy  master-thought  possesses  him. 

All  afternoon  he  has  been  in  close  converse  with 
the  higher  generals.  Sturdy  old  General  Heiman 
knows  that  Tarnaieff  can,  in  the  dark,  find  every 
corner  in  Erzeroum.  It  may  be  taken  by  assault. 

The  stars  are  twinkling  on  the  walls  of  the  silent 
town  where  Mukhtar  stands  at  bay. 

Schamyl's  face  shines  with  the  happiness  of  the 
news  so  long  coveted.  Tarnaieff  lifts  his  head  as 
an  aide  dashes  up.  "  Orders  for  Colonel  Tarnaieff/' 
He  dashes  away.  In  an  hour  the  returning  hoofs 
of  a  horse  ring  out,  and  Tarnaieff  swings  to  the 
ground. 

His  face  is  very  grave. 

"  Prince,"  he  quietly  says,  "  I  am  going  to  lead 
ten  battalions  in  a  forlorn  hope  attack  upon  the 
Medjidieh  fort.  Sixteen  more  will  assault  the 
southern  works.  The  troops  move  at  midnight." 

Schamyl  is  startled.     His  iron  heart  shakes. 

11  It  is  a  desperate  venture.  The  town  is  crowded 
with  an  army.  The  Azizi  forts'  heavy  guns  sweep 
every  inch  of  your  route,"  he  says.  "  The  citizens 
are  all  armed." 

"  True,  Prince  Ahmed.  But  I  alone  know  the 
ground.  The  honor  of  leading  is  assigned  mes  we 
shall  creep  as  near  as  possible,  and  attack  precisely 
at  the  earliest  flashes  of  day." 

By  the  firelight  Schamyl  can  see  that  his  face  is 
very  pale,  but  firm  as  a  classic  Roman  marble. 
15 


226  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

"  Do  you  know  who  commands  the  Azizi  fort  ?  " 
Tarnaieff'says. 

"  I  do  not/'  Schamyl  wearily  replies.  He  is  sick 
of  blood.  More  thousands  for  the  ravens! 

"  It  is  our  old  friend  Suleiman,  now  called  Me- 
hemed  Pacha.  He  is  the  ablest  and  most  gallant 
man  in  the  Armenian  army  to-day,  the  equal  of 
Mukhtar  or  Faizi  Pacha  in  all  but  experience. 

"  I  dislike  to  attack  him  ;  we  were  always  close 
friends."  Tarnaieff  is  musing.  He  feels  the  chill 
of  an  open  grave.  But — the  Czar  calls  him  ! 

u  Prince  Schamyl,"  he  resumes,  "  I  must  leave 
you  now.  Do  you  remember  the  night  we  destroyed 
Moussa's  cavalry  ?  We  watched  the  stars  of  vic 
tory  together.  I  shall  never  see  the  stars  rise  again 
over  Ararat." 

He  hands  Schamyl  a  letter.  "  If  I  fall,  please 
send  that  safely.  That  is  all.  I  am  a  friendless 
man." 

It  .is  true.  Lonely  Tarnaieff  has  nothing  but  his 
stainless  sword  in  the  world. 

Moved  by  some  strange  impulse,  Schamyl  says  : 
"  Tarnaieff,  my  dear  old  comrade,  I  will  go  with 
you."  He  cannot  abandon  the  man  who  shared  his 
first  victory. 

Without  a  word  Tarnaieff  clasps  his  friend's  hand. 
There  is  a  tear  sparkling  in  his  eye.  Soldier  brothers! 

Just  before  dawn,  the  divided  column  of  Tarnaieff, 
which  has  crawled  forward  at  midnight,  rushes  into 
the  Medjidieh  lunette  from  its  front  and  the  open 
gorge.  A  roar  to  the  south  proves  the  other  attack 
is  in  progress. 

Schamyl  leads  the  body  over  the  redoubt  ;  Tar- 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  227 

naieff,  the  party  at  the  gorge.  In  five  minutes  the 
garrison  are  prisoners — five  or  six  hundred  sleepy 
wretches. 

Ah  !  the  clamor  of  the  awakened  city  arises  ! 
Yells  of  rage  fill  the  air.  Fireballs  from  the  minarets 
,  prove  the  crazy  mollahs  are  on  the  watch.  A  wild 
mass  of  Turkish  regulars  dashes  into  the  work,  where 
the  victorious  Russians  are  forming  up.  At  their 
head,  Suleiman  cheers  on  his  men.  In  one  body 
the  Russians  are  fairly  hurled  out  of  the  work  or 
driven  in  knots  from  its  gorge.  Fighting  hand  to 
hand  in  the  growing  daylight,  thousands  of  fero 
cious  citizens  stream  out  to  pour  a  hell  fire  on  the 
bewildered  Russian  columns.  They  all.  have  arms. 
The  huge  guns  of  the  Azizi  work  now  open,  with 
crashing  shell,  upon  the  Russian  reserve  battalions. 
The  tired  men  go  down  in  windrows. 

Borne  away  by  the  retreating  mass,  Schamyl  is 
breathless,  bruised,  and  trodden  down. 

With  a  cheer  of  desperation,  the  Russians  pour 
over  the  walls  of  the  lunette  once  more,  for  gallant 
TarnaiefFs  ringing  voice  leads  them  on. 

Sword  in  hand,  Schamyl  throws  himself  over  the 
parapet,  followed  by  his  eager  men.  The  roar  of 
cannon  deepens  into  a  steady  crash.  The  guns  of 
the  Azizi  are  playing  on  the  Russian  masses,  in  rear, 
over  the  heads  of  the  human  fiends  in  the  work. 

Schamyl  rushes  toward  TarnaiefT.  With  yells 
the  Turks  sweep  forward.  TarnaiefT  dashes,  with 
raised  blade,  upon  Suleiman,  who  is  in  the  van. 

A  flash  from  Suleiman's  revolver !  Tarnaieff  falls 
heavily  forward  and  never  moves.  Friend  has  met 
friend.  Lonely  Tarnaieff  is  a  dead  hero. 


228  PRINCE  SCHAMVL'S  WOOING. 

Schamyl  springs  toward  his  friend,  and,  in  the 
very  face  of  Suleiman,  falls  senseless  from  a  blow  of 
a  cannon  rammer. 

In  an  hour,  Schamyl  opens  his  eyes.  He  is  in  a 
low,  dark  vault.  Beside  him  sits  an  old  Moslem 
sergeant.  He  feebly  motions  for  water.  The  Turk  ' 
hands  him  a  gourd.  Blest  gift  of  God  !  water  to  the 
wounded  !  Roar  of  cannon  and  musketry  resound. 
He  is  a  prisoner,  and  yet  the  actions  of  the  man  are 
friendly. 

In  Turkish  he  whispers:  u  Silence,  Kffendi ;  when 
the  stars  rise,  you  are  free." 

Bleeding,  bruised,  and  wounded,  Schamyl  sleeps 
even  in  the  din  of  battle.  He  is  in  an  underground 
magazine  of  the  lunette.  The  old  man  is  the  guard 
ian.  Some  friendly  hand  !  The  silence  of  death ! 
Night  falls.  Silence  reigns  once  more.  In  the 
darkness  he  can  only  hear  the  slow,  wheezy  breath 
ing  of  the  aged  sergeant. 

A  man  creeps  into  the  magazine.  Handing  him  a 
Persian  conical  cap  and  a  long  caftan,  he  says : 
"  Come,  now  !  "  He  offers  a  flask  of  brandy. 

It  is  Suleiman,  the  victor  of  the  most  fearful  day 
the  ramparts  of  Erzeroum  have  ever  known. 

"  I  am  going  the  picket  rounds,  and  will  take  you 
out  of  our  lines  in  safety.  I  have  a  horse  on  the  sunk 
road,  in  rear.  Don't  speak.  Come  on,  now  ! 

Crawling  out  of  the  magazine  pit,  Schamyl  stum 
bles  out  of  its  opening.  His  wounds  are  sore. 

By  the  glimmering  stars,  he  can  see  double  ranks 
of  Turks  sleeping  on  their  arms  around  the  parapet. 

A  few  sentinels  stalk  along  silently. 

The   interior  of  the   lunette  is  piled  with  dead. 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  229 

They  are  all  stripped.  In  falling  once  or  twice,  he 
sees  that  they  are  headless. 

A  nameless  horror  seizes  him.  He  would  speak! 
Suleiman  grasps  his  arm.  Two  horses  wait  at  the 
road  behind  the  fort  ;  a  squad  of  a  half-dozen  Kurd 
ish  lancers  are  in  the  saddle. 

Mounting  in  silence,  they  ride  over  the  field  to 
where  the  picket  fires  of  the  Turks  blaze  in  full  view 
of  the  Russian  position.  The  frightened  steeds  start 
at  the  piles  of  mangled  dead.  These  are  the  work 
of  the  huge  Azizi  guns. 

Ghastly  forms,  men  and  women,  sneak  silently  over 
the  field  ;  the  fanatics  of  Erzeroum  are  stripping  and 
mutilating  the  dead.  Schamyl  is  almost  insane  with 
the  awful  mental  strain.  Swiftly  down  the  road  the 
frightened  horses  gallop  through  the  Golgotha.  The 
Turkish  lines  are  reached  at  last. 

Bidding  his  escort  wait,  Suleiman  rides  out  to  the 
crest  of  a  deep  ravine  sweeping  toward  the  Russian 
outposts.  Passing  out  beyond  the  sentinels'  beat, 
Suleiman  speaks.  His  voice  is  broken.  "  Go,  now, 
my  friend  !  May  Allah  guide  !  Ride  straight  down 
the  ravine.  You  are  safe.  Beware  how  you  come 
on  your  own  pickets !  " 

"And  Tarnaieff?"  he  whispers,  as  he  clasps  Sulei 
man's  hand. 

"  Lies  dead  in  my  quarters,  my  friend.  All  that 
these  fiends  have  left  of  the  bravest  of  the  brave. 
He  fell  like  a  star ! 

"  Now  go  !  Go  quickly,  my  dear  Schamyl !  No 
thanks  !  Remember  Suleiman,  always  your  friend." 

As  the  lithe  steed  springs  down  the  sloping  dell, 
Schamyl  turns  his  head.  Suleiman  is  seated  on  his 


230  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

horse,  his  soldierly  figure  sharp  cut  against  the  sky, 
watching  over  his  flying  friend  with  his  face  turned 
toward  the  enemies  of  his  unhappy  country. 

In  a  half-hour  Ahmed  Schamyl  rides  into  his  own 
camp.  Hailing  a  picket  boldly,  he  is  conducted  to 
his  lines  by  a  squad  wild  with  delight.  He  was 
already  on  the  fatal  black  list.  Victory  has  been 
torn  from  them.  The  assault  has  failed. 

Throwing  himself  on  the  pile  of  blankets  he 
shared  with  poor  Tarnaieff,  Schamyl,  after  calling 
his  senior  colonel  to  take  command,  closes  his  eyes 
in  utter  exhaustion. 

Three  thousand  dead  of  each  army  lie  piled 
around  the  Azizi  fort.  Tarnaieff,  the  gallant  and 
gentle  friend  of  his  youth,  lies  silent  and  disfigured 
in  the  Turkish  redoubt,  where  his  heart's  blood  wet 
the  sod. 

Ahmed  Schamyl's  eyes  are  filled  with  bitter  tears 
as  he  looks  at  the  vacant  couch  of  the  daring  young 
leader.  Dead  on  the  field  of  honor ! 


CHAPTER   XL 

THE  STORMING  OF  KARS. — AT  THE  ARMENIAN  CON 
VENT!— OLD  HASSAN'S  FAITH.— GHAZEE'S  FLIGHT. 
—SAFE  AT  LAST! 

BEFORE  the  frowning  walls  of  Kars,  under  the 
cover  of  its  huge  outworks,  Ghazee  Schamyl,  the 
renegade,  rides  through  his  troops  in  bitter  silence. 

Now  the  glories  of  Zewin  are  faded.  The  tele 
graph  brings  from  the  Danube  the  news  of  a  crush 
ing  defeat  at  Shipka  Pass,  and  of  the  impending 
fall  of  Plevna. 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  231 

It  is  the  middle  of  dreary  November.  Day  by 
day  the  Russian  batteries  pound  away  at  Kars. 

Ghazee  spurs  his  horse  in  rage,  till  the  blood 
streams.  His  eyes  show  him  no  golden  crown  hov 
ering  over  the  silver  lines  of  the  Caucasus. 

Wearied  Mukhtar  is  shut  up  in  Erzeroum.  The 
town  of  Kars,  held  by  Hami  Pacha,  must  finally 
yield,  for  the  Russians  press  on  its  very  outposts. 
An  assault  may  come  at  any  moment.  And  the 
princess  still  lost  to  him  ! 

Every  turn  of  fortune's  wheel  drives  the  traitor 
nearer  madness. 

The  insurrection  in  Daghestan  is  crushed  under 
the  armed  heel  of  the  Russian.  Circassia  too  is 
lost  to  the  Turk  forever. 

In  useless  rage  he  has  listened  to  the  salvos  of 
the  Russian  cannon  in  honor  of  their  last  victories. 

Even  the  road  to  Erzeroum  is  in  the  enemy's 
hands. 

Should  the  assault  occur,  he  will  be  shot  like  a 
mad  dog,  if  captured. 

Even  a  soldier's  fame  is  denied  him,  brave  as  he 
is.  His  troops  are  the  veriest  cowards  and  only 
braggart  robbers  of  the  dead. 

Even  Mustapha  Bey,  at  Constantinople,  has  be 
trayed  him.  For  Mehemet  Pacha  has  been  made  a 
lieutenant-general. 

Poor  little  Suleiman  Bey,  as  Mehemet  Pacha,  is 
now  commander,  with  old  Faizi  Pacha,  of  the  last 
Turkish  field  army  in  Armenia.  His  laurels  are 
fresh  on  his  brow. 

Suleiman,  his  Giaour  brother's  friend,  wears  the 
coveted  rank  of  Ferik  ! 


232  PRINCE    SCHAMYL  S   WOOING. 

His  prey,  Maritza,  has  vanished — he  knows  not 
where. 

Ah,  God  !  He  would  grind  her  to  the  earth  if 
he  could  find  her  !  Revenge  is  his  only  hope  ! 

Even  the  impotent  commander  of  Kars,  Hami, 
sneers  at  his  comrade  in  command,  Moussa,  and 
himself. 

The  famous  irregular  troops  are  a  miserable  wreck. 
Carefully  inspecting  them,  he  selects  and  furnishes, 
as  best  as  he  may,  a  few  chosen  squadrons  for  his 
escort  in  flight.  He  must  cut  his  own  way  out. 

Defeated  !  Disgraced  !  A  fugitive  and  a  desert 
er !  Is  this  whirling  to  Tiflis  ? 

If  he  should  meet  his  brother  Ahmed  at  the  head 
of  that  brigade,  whose  achievements  ring  through 
both  armies  !  Then,  death  for  one  ! 

A  baleful  light  glitters  in  his  eyes.  Money,  prop 
erty,  jewels  of  untold  value  are  his,  taken  safely 
out  of  Russian  clutches  before  his  treason. 

He  will  not  stay  to  die  the  death  of  a  cur.  He 
will  escape  in  the  confusion.  He  knows  every 
secret  path.  Moussa  can  join  him  later.  He,  too,  is 
a  renegade.  To  gain  Syria  or  Egypt.  To  work  a 
deadly  revenge  on  Ahmed.  This  is  his  only  future. 
He  swears  it  by  the  prophet's  beard  ! 

The  blood  boils  in  his  brain  as  he  bitterly  dreams 
of  Prince  Ahmed  Schamyl  riding  in  review  before 
the  Russian  Grand  Duke,  when  the  hated  blue  and 
white  cross  floats  over  Kars  and  Bayazid,  Ardaban 
and  Batoum,  in  triumph.  His  old  colors'  Prince 
of  the  Caucasus — perhaps  an  aide  of  the  Emperor — 
and — and — Maritza's  husband  ! 

Never !  by  the  fires  of  hell  itself  ! 


PRINCE    SCHAMYLS   WOOING.  233 

For  he  swears  upon  his  soul  that  the  dagger  or 
the  bowl  shall  work  the  revenge  he  dreams  of — his 
only  prize  now  ;  his  last  hope.  He  will  reach  the 
lovers,  even  in  Riissia.  And  then,  after — after  all ! 

While  the  stern-hearted  fanatic  rides  back  to  Kars 
his  heart  softens  for  a  moment. 

There,  in  the  beleaguered  city,  waits  and  watches 
for  him  the  fearless  woman,  to  whom  the  world  is 
fair  only  when  he  is  at  her  side. 

It  is  so.  Nadya  Vronsky's  love  has  been  the 
anchor  of  his  tossing  bark. 

She  alone  clings  to  him  in  his  impending  ruin. 
Love's  crown  of  thorns  ! 

Ha !  she  may  be  even  dearer  to  him  than  in  her 
hopeless  love.  If  she  will  help  him  to  a  subtle 
revenge  ! 

He  will  take  her  with  him.  Her  wit  may  bring 
method  to  his  madness. 

While  he  rides  up  into  Kars,  to  the  retreat  where 
the  White  Countess,  under  the  thunder  of  the  heated 
guns,  waits  for  his  return,  he  knows  not  that  Ahmed 
with  a  few  squadrons  is  sweeping  like  the  wind  to 
join  in  the  grand  assault  which  must  be  risked  to 
prevent  a  winter  siege. 

Throwing  himself  moodily  on  a  divan,  Ghazee 
tells  Nadya  Vronsky  that  the  town  must  fall. 

Her  pale  cheek  grows  paler. 

"  We  are  so  weak  in  cavalry  we  can  only  hope  to 
save  a  few  of  the  leading  officers. 

"  You  can  be  ready  at  a  moment's  notice.  I  will 
have  a  couple  of  wagons,  with  a  few  devoted  men, 
over  at  Moussa's  palace. 

"  No  matter  what  happens,  I   will  save  'you,  for 


234  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

the  assault  will  give  its  own  warning.  We  will  go 
far  into  Syria,  for  when  Kars  falls  the  game  is  lost. 
We  are  beaten  !  "  he  growls. 

"  I  shall  seek  you  at  once,  for  my  mounted  troops 
will  not  be  in  the  walls.  We  go  together.  Moussa 
will  convey  us  over  the  border.  He  has  his  own 
neck  to  save." 

The  frightened  woman,  clinging  to  the  moody 
renegade,  swears  once  more  her  faith  to  him,  while 
the  deep  boom  of  the  guns  keeps  time  in  wild  music, 
as  the  siege  crawls  on. 

Riding  his  lines,  eagle-eyed  Ghazee  Schamyl  can 
not  understand  the  ominous  quiet  reigning  in  the 
Russian  lines. 

Even  aided  by  spies  and  worming  sly  dervish  and 
mollah,  nothing  is  known  in  Kars,  save  that  the 
Russians  have  been  heavily  reenforced. 

Since  Mukhtar  Pacha's  departure  for  Erzeroum, 
Hassan  Bey,  the  chief  of  the  citadel,  has  been  the 
genius  of  the  defence  of  Kars.  And  well  he  plays 
his  double  part. 

Ghazee  avoids  the  general  headquarters.  The 
open  contempt  shown  him  by  the  leading  officers 
is  due  to  the  cowardly  inefficiency  of  his  disheart 
ened  cavalry. 

Since  that  fatal  night  when  Ahmed  smote  them, 
they  have  been  scattered  a  dozen  times  in  battle. 

The  Russian  horse  have  ridden  through  them, 
and  spread  them,  yelling,  to  the  four  winds. 

Yet  the  thirty  thousand  inhabitants  and  twenty 
thousand  troops  in  Kars  are  provisioned  for  a  win 
ter  siege.  Mountains  of  military  stores  are  yet  on 
hand. 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  235 

Hundreds  of  the  defenders  dream  of  a  long  win 
ter  siege.  Several  brave  Russian  assaults  have  been 
repulsed.  Only  Paskiewitch  in  1828  ever  stormed 
Kars. 

Now  three  hundred  Krupp  guns  frown  upon  its 
stony  walls.  Kars  stubbornly  clin  gs  to  the  crescent. 

The  fanatic  riflemen  are  ready  on  bastion  and  re 
doubt.  The  Turks  will  fight  a  gun  to  the  last. 

Though  Loris  Melikoff  is  now  prince  governor- 
general  of  Armenia,  a  failure  here  may  cost  him  that 
marshal's  baton  promised  in  return  for  the  fourth 
jewel  of  Anatolia. 

While  Ghazee's  eye  moodily  roves  over  every 
nook  of  Kars,  he  searches  for  Princess  Maritza  in 
vain.  Is  she  yet  here  ? 

Never  a  trace  of  her !  She  may  have  been  smug 
gled  out  of  the  city.  Has  she  bribed  her  way  out  ? 

But  he  has  never  heard  from  deserter  or  refugee 
of  her  safety  in  the  Russian  lines. 

Is  she  dead  ?  Has  the  grave  robbed  him  of  a 
sweet  revenge  ?  He  has  sworn  to  reach  her,  even 
in  the  farthermost  palaces  of  Russia. 

Years  are  only  days  to  a  Circassian  vendetta. 
While  the  November  days  fall  clear  and  cold,  Prince 
Ghazee,  at  the  outposts,  sees  a  flag  of  truce  depart 
to  the  Russian  lines. 

It  is  Hassan  Bey,  the  Russian  spy,  who  is  sent  by 
the  simple-minded  General  Hami  Pacha  to  spy 
out  the  Russian  lines ! 

Alas  for  the  stolid  general  of  Kars  \  He  knows 
not  that  Osman  Bey  and  Hassan  are  now  plotting 
the  last  stroke  of  final  treachery. 

Ghazee  Schamyl   watches   the   party    ride   back 


236  PRINCE    SCHAMYL'S   WOOING. 

across  the  lines.  His  tiger  blood  would  boil  could 
he  have  seen  Hassan,  his  brother's  servitor,  riding 
with  that  secret  traitor  Hassan  Bey,  as  a  horse 
holder. 

The  old  Circassian  has  grown  into  his  character 
of  citizen  of  Kars.  His  disguise  is  perfect. 

When  Judas  Hassan  Bey  and  the  Russian  nego 
tiator  Osman  together  plan  the  sortie  which  is  to 
leave  the  Hafiz  Pacha  Tabia  fort  in  Muscovite 
hands  long  enough  to  spike  the  great  guns,  the  old 
Circassian  finds  time  to  tell  Osman  Bey  of  the  goat 
paths  lie  alone  has  found.  From  thence  the  great 
citadel  on  the  Kara  Dagh  can  be  reached  with  no 
serious  loss. 

Osman  laughs  for  joy. 

"  Hassan,  the  Grand  Duke  shall  make  you  rich 
for  this,"  he  cries. 

The  old  spy  in  brief  words  bids  Prince  Ahmed 
Schamyl  urge  his  way  at  once  to  the  Armenian 
convent,  for  there  his  Maritza  awaits  the  fearful 
day  of  the  assault. 

A  letter  in  her  own  beloved  hand  gives  Ahmed 
the  history  of  her  dreary  life  under  the  shadowy 
garb  of  an  Armenian  nun.  Hopes  deferred  !  When 
shall  he  clasp  her  to  his  heart  ? 

Riding  back  to  Kars,  Hassan  Bey,  the  citadel 
commander,  grimly  smiles.  Treason's  mines  are  laid. 

The  long  siege  is  nearly  done.  For  the  Russians 
wait  only  to  silence  the  huge  guns  of  the  Hafiz  fort. 
Their  massy  columns  are  ready,  led  by  the  proudest 
of  a  victorious  army,  to  throw  thirty  thousand  des 
perate  men  on  the  city's  defences. 

In    a    few    days   the    treachery  is    accomplished  ! 


PRINCE   SCHAMYL  S   WOOING.  237 

Dashing  like  wolves  at  the  fort,  under  cover  of  a 
prearranged  useless  sortie,  the  Muscovites  dis 
mantle  the  great  cannon,  taking  off  the  breech 
screws.  Bravo!  Judas  Hassan!  .  .  .  Now  the 
road  is  open.  The  Grand  Duke,  Loris  Melikoff, 
Lazareff,  and  the  other  generals  hasten  every  prep 
aration. 

Raining  down  a  mock  bombardment  of  days — 
while  a  snow-storm  quiets  the  weary  defenders, 
— the  Russians  prepare  five  huge  columns  to  sweep 
into  Kars.  The  cavalry  on  the  Erzeroum  road 
will  be  ready  to  cut  down  the  escaping  fugitives. 

Two  of  these  columns  will  open  a  false  attack, 
while  the  others  strike  the  three  great  forts  Louvan, 
Kanly,  and  Hafiz  Pacha,  the  key  of  the  citadel. 

Prince  Ahmed  Schamyl  listens,  with  a  beating 
heart,  to  the  last  conferences  of  the  great  council  of 
war.  November  17,  1877,  dawns  clear  and  cold.  A 
full  moon  beamed  over  the  silent  batteries  the  night 
before.  Thousands  slept  on  their  arms  who  saw 
the  shining  glory  of  the  heavens  for  the  last  time. 
The  field  is  ripe  for  the  sickle. 

As  the  rising  moon  silvers  the  splintered  crags  of 
the  Kara  Dagh,  an  unearthly  silence  settles  down 
over  mountain  and  plain.  The  batteries  of  friend 
and  foe  are  silent.  A  ghastly  mockery  of  peace! 

Prince  Schamyl  creeps  with  the  impetuous  Gro- 
now  to  the  head  of  the  forlorn  hope  of  Count 
Grabbe's  column.  Gronow  knows  his  secret.  Scha- 
myl's  cavalry  brigade  is  under  the  Prince  of  Ab- 
khasia,  for  the  Grand  Duke  has  given  the  impetuous 
lover  the  right  to  enter  the  town  with  the  foot 
attack.  Two  squadrons  of  his  brigade  await  the 


238  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

earliest  chance  to  dash  up  to  the  old  convent.  They 
are  his  special  guard.  They  will  cut  their  way  to 
that  point. 

Following  the  two  officers  are  twenty  picked  men 
from  Schamyl's  personal  escort.  Each  man  knows 
the  quest  now.  They  seek  the  Rose  of  Tiflis  f 

In  the  awful  silence  of  the  beautiful  night,  the 
three  great  columns  of  Lazareff,  Grabbe,  and  Roop 
move  out  in  the  shadows ;  they  silently  steal  toward 
the  forts  of  Kars.  Not  a  sound,  not  a  light,  not  a 
standard  ;  each  stormer  holds  his  breath  and  stills 
the  noise  of  his  arms. 

The  false  attacks  are  all  ready. 

From  his  post,  the  Grand  Duke,  with  anxious 
heart,  receives  quiet  reports :  "  They  are  all  off." 

He  draws  a  long  breath..    At  last ! 

The  nipping  air  is  below  zero.  The  Turkish 
walls  are  silent.  Not  a  dropping  shot,  not  a  gun. 

In  half  an  hou/  a  few  rattling  musket  shots  tell 
that  the  farther  columns  are  engaged. 

The  Grand  Duke  twists  his  mustache  and  stamps 
his  armed  heels.  Suspense!  Agony! 

Ha!  the  false  attack  begins !  A  terrific  Russian 
cannonade,  on  a  distant  point,  to  mask  the  real 
attacks. 

Yells  and  clamor  arise.  The  lines  of  Kars  flash 
out  in  light.  The  roar  of  hell  swells  on  the  wintry 
wind.  Each  huge  rampart  blazes  and  rocks  under 
the  discharge  of  the  enormous  guns. 

The  Turk  at  bay  fights  like  a  devil  incarnate. 

Along  twelve  miles  of  line,  fifty  thousand  men 
are  struggling  like  demons. 

The  moon  sails  high  above  this   fiendish   clamor. 


PRINCE  SCHAMVL'S  WOOING.  239 

Still  no  cessation.  Shock  on  shock — the  great  guns 
rend  the  night  with  horrid  voice. 

A  wild  wail,  cheers,  and  mad  yells  sweep  down 
from  the  key  points.  Victory  hovers  indecisive. 

Ahmed  Schamyl  and  Gronow,  sword  in  hand,  are 
swallowed  up  in  a  struggling  mass  of  friends  and 
foes.  Gallant  Count  Grabbe  falls  dead  from  his 
horse  within  Fort  Kanly.  In  an  hour  and  a  half 
the  Turks  are  driven  into  a  huge  barrack.  The  new 
commander,  heroic  Belinsky,  is  shot  dead  at  its 
doors. 

From  Fort  Louvan,  Schamyl  can  hear  at  last 
the  victorious  yells  of  the  Russians.  Melikoff  has 
carried  his  great  point.  That  work  is  won. 

By  the  flashes  of  the  advancing  guns,  Ahmed  sees 
the  solid  Russian  columns  throwing  the  Turks  in 
the  river  from  the  stone  bridge  they  have  bought 
with  their  blood. 

Far  away  the  frantic  roar  of  victory  swells  from 
the  Hafiz  Pacha  redoubt.  Russian  cheers  tell  that 
Lazareff  has  bought  the  second  prize  at  fearful 
cost.  Yes,  it  is  true,  for  lines  of  flashing  light  tell 
now  where  his  maddened  troops  sweep  up  the  great 
heights,  along  old  Hassan's  secret  path.  A  yell  of 
wild  triumph  from  the  clouds  proves  that  the  great 
citadel  has  fallen.  Hassan  Bey's  work  is  done. 
His  treachery  has  saved  thousands  of  Russian  lives  ! 

Schamyl  rages  vainly  with  Gronow  at  his  side. 
His  knot  of  devoted  men  cling  to  him.  The  roar 
and  tumult  from  the  town  tells  of  the  panic  in  its 
walls.  The  Turks  cling  to  the  gorge  of  the  Kanly 
fort. 

Far  away  a  dropping  fire  on  the  road  to  Erzeroum 


240  PRINCE    SCHAMYL  S   WOOING. 

proves  the  Russian  cavalry  are  grimly  receiving  the 
fugitives  from  the  town. 

Yet  the  quarter  where  Maritza  hides,  in  the  old 
nunnery,  is  still  unreachable.  "  Daoud  Pacha," 
fanatic  and  hero,  fights  at  bay  in  the  stone  citadel. 
The  Moslems  swarm  in  to  aid  the  defenders. 

But  the  fierce  Abkhasian  cavalry  under  princely 
Wittgenstein  sweep  in  and  sabre  the  Turks,  who  are 
striving  to  cut  out  and  rescue  the  Pacha.  Hour 
wears  along  into  hour.  Still  fighting !  It  is  a  dead 
lock  !  Schamyl  is  hemmed  in.  The  fires  of  death 
sweep  the  gorge.  The  moon  sinks  to  the  west,  yet 
the  carnage  reigns.  It  is  a  hideous  night !  The  town 
is  not  yet  won. 

All  the  main  works  are  in  Russian  hands.  Only 
two  stubborn  forts  on  the  heights  and  the  Kanly 
barrack  hold  out.  It  is  four  o'clock  before  its  doors 
are  blown  in.  Grim  old"  Daoud  Pacha"  surrenders 
at  last  his  five  hundred  heroes.  Now  the  golden 
daylight  streaks  the  east.  The  Russian  victors  can 
freely  open  the  captured  guns  on  the  city.  The 
twelve  thousand  Turks  cooped  up  on  the  left  bank 
are  their  prey. 

The  Grand  Duke  knows  by  report  and  the 
wounded  victors,  that  a  few  hours  will  complete 
the  victory.  Melikoff's  baton  is  won  at  last. 

Roop's  cavalry  sweeps  up.  He  surrounds  the 
main  body  of  the  defenders.  They  capitulate. 
Hurrahs  rend  the  air!  Fighting,  urging  his  way 
out  of  the  Kanly  fort,  Prince  Schamyl  with  Gro- 
now,  sword  in  hand,  reaches  the  sheltered  slope 
where  his  two  superb  squadrons  wait  him.  On  to 
Maritza,  the  day-star ! 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  241 

Now  the  way  is  clear  !  With  the  yell  of  a  madman, 
Ahmed  leads  his  troopers  over  the  stone  bridge. 
For  the  Russians  are  in  the  city  at  last ! 

The  streets  are  filled  with  fighting  fiends.  On 
ward,  by  sheer  weight,  he  forces  his  two  squadrons 
which  are  now  up.  Friend  and  foe  are  intermixed. 

The  grim  forts  on  the  heights  are  still  firing. 
Houses  are  shattered  ;  gateways  blocked  with  the 
debris  of  the  awful  bombardment.  These  guns  are 
turned  in  on  the  town.  Fire  and  flame  are  added 
to  the  night's  horrors.  In  square  and  street,  knots 
of  ferocious  horsemen  cut  down  the  fleeing  Turks. 

Away  out  on  the  Erzeroum  road,  the  carbines  are 
ringing.  The  cavalry  are  at  their  work. 

At  last  the  convent  looms  up.  With  a  wild  charge 
Prince  Schamyl  forces  his  men  to  within  pistol 
shot.  It  is  but  a  shattered  ruin.  Smoke  pours 
from  its  windows,  and  its  courtyard  is  deserted  save 
by  the  heaps  of  dead.  Schamyl  drops  his  dripping 
sword.  It  dangles  idly  from  his  wrist  by  its  knot. 

Maritza!  missing,  dead,  dying!  The  convent  in 
flames.  .  .  .  His  brain  reels. 

A  yell  rises.  A  man  at  his  side  raises  a  sabre  to 
cut  down  a  squalid  figure. 

It  is  old  Hassan.     Ahmed's  heart  leaps  for  joy  !» 

"  Master,  master,  quick,  a  horse  !  Follow  me  !  " 
In  an  instant  a  trooper  is  out  of  the  saddle. 

"This  way,  down  the  bank!  "  Hassan  has  seized 
a  dead  man's  sabre  and  leads  in  the  wild  race. 

He  shouts  as  he  dashes  along  at  the  side  of 
Ahmed.  The  two  squadrons  stretch  out  in  a  race 
for  a  life, — that  darling  Rose  ! 

"  The    Prince  Ghazee,  with    two   wagons   and    a 
16 


242  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

squadron  of  his  Kurds,  carried  off  the  day-star. 
We  were  driven  out  of  the  convent  by  the  fire.  He 
is  escaping  by  the  Olti  road.  On  for  her  life  !  " 

Twenty  bounds  carry  the  pursuers  under  the  over 
hanging  bank,  out  of  the  range  of  the  guns  still  firing. 

The  desperate  lover  leads  at  a  wild  gallop  ! 
Down  to  the  plain !  On,  on  for  life  and  love  ! 

Yes,  the  Olti  road.  Away  like  a  whirlwind,  leaving 
the  yelling  fugitives  unscathed  !  For  on  the  plain  a 
half  mile  ahead  are  wagons  creeping  slowly  along. 

The  gallant  black  stretches  his  noble  neck.  It  is 
a  ride  for  life,  for  love,  for  Maritza ! 

Old  Hassan's  eyes  are  aflame.  He  points  with 
his  sabre. 

In  twenty  minutes  a  dozen  of  the  pursuers  dash 
upon  two  wagons,  urged  along  by  their  frantic 
drivers. 

"  Yes  !  yes  !  "  yells  Hassan,  waving  his  blade. 

As  a  score  of  the  flying  horsemen  dash  away  in 
all  directions,  Ghazee's  burly  form  is  seen,  with  a 
dozen  followers,  circling  around  the  wagons.  The 
grim  \vild  boar  is  at  bay.  The  Russian  squadrons 
are  only  a  hundred  yards  in  rear.  The  winners 
in  the  race  fight  at  odds.  Help  comes  ! 
-  It  is  a  wild  melee.  Screams  are  sounding  from 
the  covered  carts.  Sword  and  pistol  begin  their 
work.  Women  wailing!  Men  dying!  Ahmed 
dashes  to  the  nearest  wagon!  He  tears  aside  a 
leather  curtain  !  Ghazee,  at  point  blank,  fires  his 
pistol  full  at  his  brother  !  A  sweep  of  old  Hassan's 
sword !  Ghazee's  arm  falls.  With  a  yell  of  pain 
he  wheels  his  horse  into  the  bushes.  He  is  gone  ! 
Ahmed  is  unscathed.  What  means  that  groan  of 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  243 

suffering  ?  The  last  men  sweep  up.  Not  too  early  ! 
Gronow  is  standing  over  old  Hassan,  who  has 
dropped  heavily  from  his  horse.  A  mortal  sword- 
thrust  has  pierced  his  back.  The  wagons  are  halted 
acrpss  the  road.  Schamyl  gazes  wildly  around  as 
the  devoted  troopers  gather. 

There,  in  the  wagon,  white  and  pale,  in  the  dark 
garb  of  an  Armenian  novice,  lies  his  lost  love  Ma- 
ritza  !  Is  it  death  ?  No.  Yet  death  is  circling  near. 
A  dozen  troopers  are  bending  over  old  Hassan  ! 
He  lies  by  the  roadside.  It  is  his  last  hour. 

Gronow  opens  the  curtain  of  the  other  wagon. 
Schamyl  springs  to  his  side.  The  White  Countess !— ^ 
bleeding  and  dying !  Nadya  Vronsky's  heart's 
blood  is  welling  out  under  the  Persian  shawl  of  her 
disguise.  Ghazee's  pistol  shot  was  their  divorce  on 
earth.  Her  eyes  are  already  set.  A  white  hand 
grasps  the  shawl's  folds  over  her  bosom.  Love's 
fatal  gift ! — death  at  her  lover's  hand  ! 

A  light  from  other  days — from  happier  years — 
seems  to  gather  on  the  devoted  woman's  face. 

To  spring  to  Maritza's  side,  to  rouse  her — dashing 
a  canteen  of  water  on  her  inanimate  face — is  an 
instant  work  for  the  princely  lover.  The  plain  is 
covered  yet  with  fighting  fugitives.  Already  the 
Russian  troopers  are  scouring  the  field.  The  scat 
tered  escort  is  all  rallied  now.  They  form  quickly 
around  the  wagons.  Two  of  them  spring  to  the 
reins,  for  the  drivers  lie  under  their  teams.  Gronow 
never  loses  his  head.  He  is  not  yet  a  lover  ! 

Gronow  begs  Ahmed  to  listen  a  moment.  "  He 
is  calling  for  you — old  Hassan,  the  man  who  has 
just  saved  your  life  !  "  It  is  even  so. 


244  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

Lying  on  a  horseman's  cloak,  his  grizzled  head 
propped  up,  the  old  Circassian  has  'but  a  few  min 
utes  to  live.  His  life  pays  for  his  devotion  to 
Ahmed's  safety. 

Ghazee's  shot,  aimed  at  his  brother,  has  killed 
the  only  being  in  the  world  who  loved  him. 

Some  unknown  hand  brought  Hassan  low,  while 
defending  Ahmed. 

Hassan  mutters  feebly,  "  Master."  He  beckons 
with  a  skinny  hand.  He  gasps.  The  old  soldier's 
day  is  done. 

Schamyl  is  on  his  knees  beside  him.  The  aged  ser 
vitor  gasps  feebly,  for  his  life  is  welling  away  quickly. 

"  Master !  my  oath.  I  swore  it  to  the  dying.  I 
am  now  free.  Remember !  Your  mother  was  the 
lady  !  the  Russian  lady!  the  Princess  Orbelian  ! 

11  Your  father  took  you  away  ;  he  would  have  you 
a  Moslem.  You  !  I  kept  faith  with  him  and  served 
you  honestly.  The  dying  are  free  at  last.  May  you 
be  happy  with — the  day-star — your  princess.  The 
other — the  other — you  can  find — the  little  girl  !  " 

His  head  drops  back.  The  wild  old  rider  has 
reached  the  last  goal  of  life's  race.  His  dead  hand 
is  closed  over  his  master's  fingers. 

Ahmed  hastily  orders  the  body  to  be  placed  in 
the  same  wagon  where  all  that  is  left  of  the  White 
Countess  stiffens  slowly  into  marble.  Shots  and 
sounds  of  skirmish  grow  nearer. 

Gronow  and  Schamyl,  sword  in  hand,  watch  the 
suffering  girl  for  whose  rescue  they  dared  the  hor 
rors  of  Fort  Kanly.  Princess  Maritza  revives  slowly. 
Her  lovely  bosom  heaves. 

Her  opening  eyes  meet  the  burning  gaze  of  her 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  245 

lover.     There    is    a    faint    smile    on  her   lips.     She 
whispers  : 

"  Ahmed,  my  lover,  my  own."  The  prince  clasps 
her  madly  in  his  arms. 

He  covers  her  lips  with  burning  kisses.  He  whis 
pers  loving  words  to  calm  her  fears.  Her  breathing 
flutters  faint  and  low,  but  she  is  unharmed. 

Gronow  speaks : 

"  Prince,  we  must  instantly  draw  away.  The 
Kurds  and  fugitives  might  bear  down  on  us.  I 
will  command  the  detachment.  Rouse  yourself." 

In  five  minutes,  between  two  lines  of  the  troopers, 
with  a  strong  platoon  at  front  and  rear,  the  wagons, 
move    across  the  plain  direct  toward  the  Russian 
lines.      There  is  peace  and  succor. 

Schamyl's  brain  is  soon  quieted.  The  cannon 
slowly  cease  to  roar  at  Kars.  The  whole  city  is 
now  under  the  guns  of  the  Russian  victors.  Victory 
folds  its  pinions. 

Far  up  in  the  Kara  Dagh  citadel,  a  little  flag  is 
floating  now.  Schamyl  knows  it  is  at  last  the  blue 
and  white  cross.  Scattered  musketry  rings  out  yet, 
the  roads  are  still  black  with  prisoners  herded  by 
guards.  The  plains  of  Kars  are  a  shambles,  for  the 
Circassian  chaska  is  at  its  work. 

His  lovely  charge  lies  silent  and  exhausted.  Her 
beloved  eyes  m'eet  his  in  the  confident  gaze  of  a 
child.  She  has  no  fear  now,  for  her  heroic  lover's 
glance  pledges  her  safety. 

Safe  at  last !  Thank  God  !  She  drops  into  the 
slumber  of  exhaustion.  Arrived  at  the  Russian  lines, 
Schamyl  directs  his  march  to  the  field  hospital. 
Maritza  soon  sleeps  in  a  comfortable  marquee,  with  a 


246  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

Turkish  waiting-woman  wondering  at  the  beauty  of 
her  worn  and  wasted  face.  An  old  army  surgeon 
watches  till  she  wakes  in  reassured  peace.  The 
death-watchers,  in  a  tent  near  by,  strive  to  divine  what 
wayward  fortune  brought  lovely  Nadya  Vronsky  to 
die  on  an  Armenian  battle-field.  For  the  White 
Countess  lies  pale  and  still !  The  proud,  passionate 
heart  knows  no  pang  of  anguish  now  ! 

Gronow  is  off  to  report  to  General  Melikoff  the  res 
cue  of  Princess  Maritza.  Prince  Ahmed  soon  learns 
of  the  complete  possession  of  the  city.  Ringing 
cheers  fill  the  air.  The  soldiers  are  wild  with  joy. 
Even  now  the  staff  are  arranging  for  the  triumphal 
entry  of  the  victorious  Grand  Duke.  Order  is 
restored  at  the  point  of  the  sword.  Schamyl  knows 
full  well  that  the  Armenian  campaign  is  over  at  last. 
Erzeroum  will  yield  to  a  quiet  siege.  If  the  Danube 
army  gains  Plevna,  it  is  the  beginning  of  the  end. 
And  the  fruits  of  victory ! 

Ahmed,  while  watching  over  his  darling's  safety, 
stands,  after  she  is  in  quiet  sleep,  by  the  cold  form  of 
Nadya  Vronsky.  Dead  !  By  a  chance  shot  of  her 
murderous  lover  !  Arid  Ghazee,  now  a  hunted  fugi 
tive,  wounded  by  old  Hassan's  sword  as  he  struck 
down  the  murderous  pistol — he  has  met  the  ship 
wreck  of  his  last  hope  !  Revenge  is  his  only  future. 
His  life  will  be  only  that  of  the  hunted  wolf.  Only 
Kurdistan  opens  its  robber  shelter  to  him. 

All  over  the  camp  mad  rejoicing  begins.  Yet, 
though  fifteen  thousand  Turks  are  prisoners  ;  though 
three  hundred  guns,  and  millions  in  stores  and  muni 
tions,  with  the  generals,  the  colors,  and  the  great 
city  are  a  gigantic  trophy,  there  are  grievous  losses ! 


PRINCE   SCHAMYL  S   WOOING.  247 

Five  out  of  six  column  leaders  lie  dead  or  wounded  ! 
Five  thousand  slain  or  dying  Turks  have  half  as  many 
Russian  companions  in  the  grave.  Friend  and  foe  lie 
in  the  grim  windrows  of  the  mitraille, — fruits  of  mili 
tary  glory ! 

When  the  pale  moon  smiles  once  more  on  a 
quiet  night,  the  Grand  Duke  enters  Kars  in  tri 
umph.  The  great  dignitaries,  Christian  and  Mos 
lem,  receive  the  imperial  conqueror,  who  graciously 
gives  Melikoff  the  marshal's  baton  he  has  earned  ! 
Golden  honors  crimsoned  with  the  best  blood  of  his 
peerless  army. 

Maritza  de  Deshkalin  finds  a  fitting  temporary  resi 
dence.  Clasped  in  the  arms  of  gallant  old  Lazareff, 
her  guardian,  she  feels  again  the  dawn  of  a  bright 
future.  The  telegraphs  of  victory  to  Tiflis  bear 
news  which  brings  happy  tears  to  those  she  was  torn 
away  from.  Madame  Lazareff  is  at  the  summit  of 
happiness!  Her  husband,  the  hero  of  Kars!  Her 
lovely  ward,  safe  ! 

Schamyl  remains  in  Kars,  though  his  brigade,  with 
the  advance,  is  driving  the  flying  fugitives  far  out  of 
the  valley  of  the  Euphrates  and  Tigris.  Save  at 
Erzeroum  and  Batoum,  the  Russian  standard  floats 
over  the  whole  of  Armenia. 

Loris  Melikoff,  elated  with  victory,  pushes  his 
corps,  with  fifty  guns,  on  to  aid  General  Heimann  at 
Erzeroum.  The  bayonets  of  the  sturdy  Turks  still 
glitter  behind  their  hard-held  ramparts. 

Fiery  Komaroff  throws  himself  upon  Batoum  to 
strengthen  the  Russian  commander.  That  sea-port, 
as  well  as  Poti,  must  be  secured.  They  are  Black  Sea 
gateways  of  the  railroad,  over  whose  future  route 


248  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

plotting  Ignatief  and  wily  Melikoff  have  dreamed  for 
years,  waiting  the  declaration  of  war. 

Osman  Bey,  the  secret  agent,  struts  on  the  ram 
parts  of  Kars  with  pride.  Hassan  Bey,  the  Turkish 
Judas,  wears  his  golden  sabre  proudly  in  the  Russian 
lines.  Under  an  escort  of  honor,  he  leaves  for 
Goomri.  He  can  safely  bask  in  the  harem  of  old 
Abdallah.  There  are  coffers  piled  with  Russian 
gold  waiting  for  the  man  who  sold  both  his  fort  and 
flag. 

Ahmed  is  busied  in  sacred  duties  for  several  days. 
Though  officially  attached  as  aide  to  the  Grand 
Duke,  he  is  given  a  little  time  for  personal  affairs. 
His  services  at  Kars  claim  every  distinction.  General 
Lazareff  tells  with  gratitude  how  old  Hassan's  goat 
path  led  the  stormers  safely  up  to  the  Kara  Dagh. 

Bulmering,  the  grim  old  engineer  colonel  who 
blew  in  the  doors  of  the  Fort  Kanly  barrack,  with 
joy  embraces  the  princely  young  leader. 

Schamyl  clung  to  the  assault  with  him  in  that 
awful  two  hours'  struggle  before  "  Daoud  Pacha  " 
gave  up  his  heroic  fight. 

There  is  sadness  on  the  brow  of  the  young  gen 
eral  when  he  stands  by  the  open  grave  of  old 
Hassan. 

In  the  mosque  burying  ground  a  double  squadron 
of  his  Circassian  comrades  fire  the  last  volleys  over 
the  body  of  the  quaint  servitor.  A  stone  with  the 
graven  turban  surmounts  the  last  resting-place  of 
the  wild  feudal  vassal.  Faithful  unto  death  ! 

The  past,  present,  and  future  crowd  in  visions 
and  dreams  upon  Schamyl,  when  the  cortege  of  a 
few  of  his  friends  gathers  in  the  Armenian  church, 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  249 

They  hear  mass,  with  bell,  book,  and  candle,  over 
what  was  once  dazzling  Nadya  Vronsky. 

Leaning  on  the  arm  of  General  LazarefT,  Princess 
Maritza,  with  streaming  eyes,  strives  to  think  that 
all  of  good  was  not  worn  away  from  Nadya's  nature 
by  her  stormy,  wandering  career.  As  her  own 
beautiful  dark  eyes  meet  Ahmed's,  he  can  read  in 
their  splendid  depths  the  thought,  "  She  gave  me 
back  to  you,  Ahmed,  my  lover  !" 

The  blood-stained  ramparts  of  Kars  are  silent 
and  peaceful. 

New  faces  walk  on  the  parapets,  strange  uniforms 
throng  the  headquarters.  On  bastion  and  outwork 
the  flag  of  Russia  floats.  High  in  air  over  the 
palace  the  black  and  yellow  insignia  of  the  imperial 
family  soars  in  pride. 

The  Grand  Duke  Michael  holds  the  coveted 
quadrilateral  for  his  imperial  brother. 

In  abject  defeat  the  waning  crescent  disappears 
forever  from  the  old  stronghold. 

Three  days  after  the  entry  of  the  Grand  Duke, 
Schamyl  receives  an  order  to  depart  for  the  Danube 
with  the  personal  despatches  of  the  duke  to  his 
imperial  brother  who  waits  now  for  the  downfall  of 
Plevna. 

Osman  Ghazee  Pacha  is  nearing  the  sunset  of  his 
glory.  The  tide  of  Russian  victory  sweeps  along. 

General  Lazareff  wishes  to  send  Princess  Maritza 
at  once  to  Tiflis.  Kars  is  no  place  for  a  gentle 
girl. 

The  congratulations  of  the  Grand  Duke,  the  hon 
ors  of  his  personal  reception  are  welcome  to  the 
loyal  prince,  yet  they  are  worthless  and  empty  to 


250  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

the  priceless  boon  of  escorting  his  Maritza-  to  the 
safety  and  comfort  of  Tiflis. 

Lazareff  was  a  lover  himself  once.  He  smiles 
behind  his  gray  mustache  as  he  deftly  tells  Schamyl 
to  prepare  Princess  Maritza  for  an  immediate  depart 
ure.  Ahmed's  heart  throbs  in  exquisite  happiness. 

Seated  in  his  private  sanctum,  the  chief  remarks, 
eying  Schamyl  closely  : 

"  I  suppose  you  will  not  be  incommoded  by  the 
duty,  Prince  !  There  are  several  Christian  ladies  of 
rank  here  who  wish  to  leave  these  scenes  of  horror. 
A  travelling  carriage  of  the  Grand  Duke  will  be 
placed  at  the  disposal  of  the  princess.  She  has 
reliable  women  attendants  already. 

"  As  I  wish  my  wife  and  family  to  go  on  to  St. 
Petersburg,  I  judge  it  safe  for  Princess  Maritza  to 
go  with  them.  We  will  reunite  when  our  gracious 
Emperor  returns. 

"  If  it  will  annoy  or  delay  you,  I  will  send  some 
one  else,"  the  old  fighter  slyly  remarks. 

"  Oh,  by  no  means,  General !  "  The  prince's  eyes 
are  absently  fixed  on  his  wineglass.  There  is  a  red 
spot  on  his  swarthy  cheeks. 

Even  a  Circassian  lover  can  blush  ! 

Strange  to  say,  Schamyl  is  inattentive  to  the  dis 
cursive  remarks  of  Lazareff  as  to  certain  letters-and 
little  instructions  with  regard  to  his  family  in  Tiflis. 

"  I  think  I  had  better  prepare  the  princess  for  her 
voyage,"  Schamyl  suggests. 

"  Most  certainly,  most  certainly,  my  dear  Prince," 
replies  Lazareff,  with  a  twinkling  eye. 

Prince  Ahmed  escapes  with  a  celerity  which 
amuses  the  old  military  governor. 


PRINCE    SCHAMYL  S   WOOING.  2$  I 

The  happy  lover  arrays  himself  in  a  style  of  mili 
tary  coquetry  hardly  suited  to  the  grim  hero  of 
Fort  Kanly. 

As  he  clatters  up  the  street  on  his  bounding 
"  Kara  "  his  spirits  are  clouded  by  one  haunting 
regret. 

The  half-told  secret  !  His  Mother,  Princess 
Orbelian  !  Oh  !  that  Hassan  had  lived  another 
half-hour  ! 

Alas !  No  more  will  old  Hassan  ride  behind  him 
— an  unrivalled  squire. 

Past  the  dismantled  walls  of  the  old  convent 
Schamyl  rides.  There  are  scores  of  workmen  re 
pairing  it  already.  The  scattered  nuns  are  safely 
housed.  The  priests  of  the  monastery  are  at  home 
again.  Love  leads  him  to  the  Rose. 

Schamyl  enters  the  salon  where  Maritza  waits 
him. 

A  tender  delicacy  has  kept  him  from  urging  her 
to  speak  of  her  sufferings.  The  wise  old  Russian 
physician,  who  daily  rides  up  to  see  his  fairest  pa 
tient,  has  ordained  quiet  and  rest. 

The  story  of  her  last  days  at  the  convent  is  yet 
unknown  to  him. 

As  he  greets  the  woman  he  loves,  Ahmed  sees 
that  the  roses  are  coming  back  to  her  lovely  face. 
She  is  the  Rose  of  Tiflis  once  more. 

Care  and  anxiety,  long  weary  months  of  hiding 
in  the  dark  convent  walls,  have  strangely  sub 
dued  her.  Something  of  the  nun  clings  to 
her! 

But  to-day,  fleeting  blushes  mantle  her  cheeks ; 
her  eyes  are  downcast  and  dreamy. 


252  PRINCE    SCHAMYL  S   WOOING. 

She  sees  the  great  ruby  flashing  on  his  finger,  and 
faintly  smiles. 

"  I  have  news  of  importance  for  you.  Princess," 
he  says  gently,  seating  himself  at  her  side. 

He  tells  her  of  the  impending  departure. 

Home,  friends,  safety — Tiflis  once  more  !  To  go 
far  away  beyond  all  reach  of  danger.  The  sudden 
prospect  is  too  much  for  the  rescued  hostage  of 
love  ! 

Her  eyes  fill  with  sudden  tears  of  joy.  Burying 
her  glowing  face  in  her  hands,  she  sobs  like  a  child. 

Schamyl's  diplomacy  yields  to  the  burning  ardor 
of  a  love  which  to  him  has  been  as  yet  only  a  tor 
ment. 

His  arms  are  around  her.  Silence  reigns,  till  he 
softly  says  : 

"  Now,  darling,  sorrow  and  danger  have  folded 
their  wings.  In  a  few  days  you  will  be  at  Tiflis." 

Maritza  whispers  softly  :  "  Take  me  away,  Ahmed 
— far  away, — from  this  fearful  place." 

Schamyl  presses  his  burning  lips  upon  hers  in 
answer. 

"  You  shall  go,  my  own  poor  darling — far  away, 
in  peace  and  safety.  Go  to  St.  Petersburg  with 
Madame  Lazareff,  and  give  me  the  right  to  protect 
you  forever,  when  the  war  is  done.  I  must  report 
to  the  Emperor  in  person.  When  the  troops  come 
home  we  meet  again.  Will  you  then  be  mine,  my 
own,  mine  only  ?  " 

The  beautiful  dark  eyes  fill  his  very  heart  of 
hearts,  as  Maritza  whispers  : 

"  I  will,  my  Ahmed  !     Yours  while  life  lasts !  " 

Here,   within    the    broken    ramparts    of    the    old 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  253 

town,  two  happiest  lovers  bless  the  shining  stars  of 
Fate,  which  join  their  paths  once  more. 

"  But  you  must  tell  me  of  your  last  night  in  the 
convent,"  Ahmed  asks. 

Maritza  shudders.  "  I  can  never  remember  all. 
It  was  horrible.  I  knew  by  the  unnatural  stillness 
some  desperate  measure  was  impending.  Old  Father 
Anastasius  warned  us  to  be  ready  to  follow  him,  if 
we  should  be  driven  from  our  refuge.  .  Your  faith 
ful  Hassan  told  me  of  the  assault.  He  promised  to 
linger  at  the  gateway  and  lead  you  to  my  refuge. 

"  Alas  !  It  was  all  we  could  do  to  wait  helplessly. 
I  was  ready  for  flight  !  I  prepared  to  follow  him  to 
you. 

tl  The  streets  were  filled  with  excited  people  when 
the  roar  of  the  cannons  told  us  your  columns  were 
attacking. 

"  Our  servants  and  even  the  priests  barricaded  the 
doors,  all  but  one  portal.  The  Moslems  were 
running  from  house  to  house  sacking  the  Christians' 
homes. 

u  Louder  than  the  yells  ajid  sound  of  the  cannon, 
your  crashing  musketry  fire  '  crept  nearer  and 
nearer.  It  rivalled  noonday,  the  flashing  lights  of 
battle. 

"  I  was  terrified.  How  I  spent  that  awful  night, 
I  know  not. 

"  When  the  morning  began  to  dawn,  the  Kara 
Dagh  battery  fired  into  the  town.  We  knew  then 
the  Russians  had  gained  the  citadel. 

"  Joy  filled  my  heart !  Alas  !  the  bursting  shells 
set  fire  to  the  monastery  !  I  was  dragged  out  of 
the  side  portal,  more  dead  than  alive. 


254  PRINCE    SCHAMYL  S   WOOING. 

"  Hassan,  watching  and  waiting  at  the  door,  had 
some  nook  of  safety  devised  for  me.  The  falling 
shells  scattered  our  terrified  priests  and  nuns. 

"  I  ran  blindly  ;  in  my  fright,  my  veil  was  swept 
away.  I  darted  toward  a  side  street.  I  heard  a  wild 
yell.  In  a  few  moments  I  was  thrust  by  your  mad 
brother  into  a  wagon.  Menacing  me  with  a  pistol, 
he  shouted  to  his  followers.  We  plunged  rapidly 
down  the  river  road.  Out  upon  the  wooded  plain 
the  band  dashed  at  wild  speed. 

"  I  never  heard  a  sound  from  the  other  wagon, 
except  once  a  woman's  scream,  as  we  passed 
through  the  line  of  fire  at  the  outer  gates. 

"  It  was  poor  Nadya,  who  risked  life  to  save  me, 
and  braved  her  lover's  anger." 

Maritza  paused,  covering  her  face  with  her  thinned 
hands,  to  shut  out  the  sights  of  that  desperate  ride. 

"  Enough,"  Ahmed  cries.  "You  are  safe  now, 
beloved  !  The  priests  and  nuns  were  all  sheltered 
here  and  there.  There  are  none  missing. 

"  Did  Ghazee  speak  to  you  on  this  flight?" 
Schamyl's  mind  calls  back  the  fugitive. 

"  Only  to  scream,  as  he  urged  his  men  on  :  '  You 
are  mine  now,  by  all  the  fiends  of  hell !  Where  is 
your  Giaour  lover  ?  '  And  then  you  came,  darling, 
with  your  noble  fellows." 

Schamyl  folds  his  love  once  more  in  his  arms. 
"  By  all  the  angels  of  heaven,  you  are  mine — alone, 
now  and  forevermore." 

"  I  remember  nothing  of  the  pursuit  and  fight, 
save  the  firing  and  the  yells  around,  until  I  saw 
your  dear  face  bending  over  me." 

The  sweet   girl  blushes  rosy  red  now,  for  Prince 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  255 

Schamyl's    tenderness   is    as   demonstrative    as   his 
military  valor  is  dashing.     Always  a  Circassian  ! 


Surrounded  by  a  glittering  circle,  in  adieu,  con 
ducted  to  her  carriage  by  the  overjoyed  old  General 
Lazareff,  Princess  Maritza  drives  out  from  the  south 
gate  af  Kars,  the  next  day,  with  the  other  ladies 
fleeing  from  its  detested  battle  memories. 

The  Grand  Duke  himself  deigns  to  ride  to  the 
outer  forts  with  the  Rose  of  Tiflis. 

Old  Father  Anastasius  in  blessing  lays  his  wrinkled 
hands  upon  her  fair  young  head.  He  looks  askance 
at  the  handsome  face  of  the  stately  Ahmed,  ever 
by  her  side.  The  good  priest's  reward  for  his  devo 
tion  is  the  eagerness  of  the  Russian  officials  to 
restore  and  refit  his  sanctuary  and  home  of  the 
religious.  Maritza  goes  with  his  benediction. 

In  this  wise,  Kars  loses  the  sweetest  nun  who 
ever  peeped  through  a  veil.  Sister  Agatha's  name 
lingers  as  a  gracious  memory.  Before  the  great  altar, 
kneeling  in  thanks,  she  gave  a  splendid  alms  to  be 
expended  in  masses  for  the  repose  of  the  soul  of 
brilliant  and  wayward  Nadya.  She,  poor  lost  one, 
lies  sleeping  quietly  "  after  life's  fit fuLf ever  "  in  the 
lonely  "  God's  acre  "  of  the  old  Armenian  cathedral  Un 
church. 

In  safety,  in  ease,  under  the  too-anxious  guard  of 
her  happiest  of  lovers,  Maritza  passes  the  gates 
of  great  Goomri  and  rests  a  day  or  two. 

Here,  across  the  Araxes,  are  bevies  of  ladies  who 
flock  to  welcome  the  lovely  Rose,  now  on  the  soil 
of  Georgia  once  more. 

Abdallah  gravely  bows  his  salutations.     He,  too, 


256  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

must  greet  the  Rose,  whose  singular  and  rapid  recov 
ery  is  a  crowning  professional  triumph  of  the  good 
old  Russian  army  doctor. 

In  his  adieu,  the  keen-eyed  surgeon,  pointing  to 
Prince  Schamyl,  says  gently,  "  Highness,  1  leave 
your  case  now  to  my  successor'' 

Abdallah  the  jeweller  has  found  a  wonderful  tur 
quoise  ring,  of  the  peerless  blue  of  Samarcand, 
which  he  offers  as  a  gage  of  future  happiness  to 
the  sweet  captive  of  Kars.  He  wonders  not  at 
Schamyl's  devotion. 

"  By  Allah  !     A  jewel  !  "  he  murmurs. 

In  easy  and  rapid  movement,  with  relays,  a  few 
days'  travel  brings  the  escort  to  Tiflis.  These 
hours  are  a  dream  of  happiness. 

Schamyl,  with  delicate  consideration,  sends  two 
of  his  swiftest  riders  flying  in  advance  to  notify 
Madame  LazarerT. 

Bright  tears  of  happiness  sparkle  in  the  eyes  of 
the  rescued  Princess  of  Georgia  when  she  is  led 
through  the  portals  of  the  LazarerT  mansion. 

There  are  four  delighted  enthusiasts  madly  em 
bracing  each  other.  Tiflis  regains  its  day-star. 

Madame  Lazareff,  the  two  sprightly  demoiselles 
of  the  house,  and  the  wanderer  are  a  group  of  the 
happiest  women  in  the  Czar's  broad  domain. 

Prince  Schamyl  has  but  a  brief  respite.  On  to 
Vladikaukas,  to  Kertsch  and  Odessa,  down  to  the 
Danube,  to  press  forward  to  the  great  imperial 
headquarters  with  the  papers  and  despatches,  he 
must  speed.  His  two  squadrons  will  escort  him  to 
the  "  Iron  Gate  of  the  Hills."  Thence  the  railway 
leads  to  his  destination  on  the  Danube. 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  257 

It  is  a  happy  circle  at  the  dinner  table. 

Ahmed  sees  the  household  reassembled.  Only 
its  absent  chief,  who  wears  a  warrior's  crown  of 
freshened  laurels  at  Kars,  is  missing. 

Madame  Lazareff,  the  lovely  Nina  and  her  friend 
Tia,  cast  furtive  glances  at  the  unblushing  Schamyl, 
whose  love  shines  in  every  lineament. 

These  ladies  realize  that  Princess  Maritza  has 
found  her  lord  and  master  in  the  dashing  hero  of 
Fort  Kanly.  Madame  Lazareff,  reading  her  hus 
band's  letters,  welcomes  Ahmed  as  a  member  of  the 
family  circle.  When  the  orderly  reports  his  troops 
ready  for  the  march,  Prince  Ahmed  murmurs  be 
seechingly  to  the  lady  of  the  mansion  : 

"  I  bring  her  back  to  you,  madame.  Before  the 
snow  melts  on  the  Neva  I  shall  come  and  claim 
her.  Pray  guard  her  for  me." 

Madame  Lazareff  smiles  upon  the  young  lover. 
His  confident  manner  argues  a  very  comprehensive 
agreement  upon  all  future  movements  with  the 
gentle  fugitive  of  Kars. 

Black  Kara  nods  and  tosses  his  proud  head  at  the 
gateway.  It  needs  a  second  message  to  rouse  Prince 
Schamyl  from  his  delicious  day-dream. 

The  heaven  of  Maritza's  happy  eyes,  the  witching 
spell  of  her  loving  words,  the  chrism  of  her  kiss — all 
these  must  give  way  to  the  stern  fiat,  "  Forward ! 
in  the  name  of  the  Czar ! " 

Softly  putting  aside  her  clinging  arms,  he  whis 
pers  :  "  Darling,  wait  for  me  in  St.  Petersburg. 
The  war  ends  even  now.  It  is  only  a  brief  separa 
tion." 

And,  as  his  lips  press  hers,  the  bright  star  of 
17 


258  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

love  rises  far  in  the  eastern  skies  beyond  the  crested 
Caucasus. 

When  Maritza's  eyes  are  lifted,  the  knightly  train 
is  sweeping  down  the  causeway. 

Her  heart  goes  out  into  the  silent  night  with  her 
adored.  She  stands  a  radiant,  blushing  Rose  ! 


CHAPTER    XII. 

BEYOND  THE  DANUBE. — VICTORY. — CONSTANTINO 
PLE. —  GRONOW'S  WARNING.  —  THE  ENGLISH 
FLEET. — ON  THE  VERGE. — PEACE  AT  LAST.— 
SCHAMYL'S  VISION. 

UNDER  the  tranquil  starlight  Prince  Ahmed  gal 
lops  with  his  escort.  Maritza's  farewell  kisses  are 
yet  burning  on  his  lips.  It  is  only  when  the  gorges 
of  the  mountain  road  hide  Tiflis  from  his  eyes  he  is 
again  the  watchful  leader. 

The  regular  dropping  of  the  horse's  hoofs  on  the 
flinty  road  lulls  him  to  rest.  In  revery  he  plods 
on.  He  is  now  an  "  imperial  despatch  bearer."  He 
must  make  a  forced  march  to  the  end  of  the  rail 
way. 

All  is  peace  around.  The  sweeping  Russian  vic 
tories  have  chased  away  all  fear  of  uprisings  in  Da- 
ghestan  and  Abkhasia. 

The  wide  expanse  of  Armenia  shows  from  the 
Caspian  to  the  Black  only  two  defeated  Turkish 
armies  pent  up  at  bay  in  Erzeroum  and  Batoum. 

The  fall  of  these  cities  is  a  mere  matter  of  pro 
fessional  siege  exercise.  Ghazi  Mukhtar  the  Great 
is  Ghazi  no  longer. 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  259 

Whither  will  his  fanatic  brother  drift  ?  Into  Cen 
tral  Asia,  into  Arabia,  or  with  his  secretly  exported 
wealth  into  some  Pachalik  of  Syria  or  Far  Turkey 
in  Asia  ?  Sybarite,  renegade,  deserter,  fugitive  ! 

Schamyl  prays  that  he  has  seen  that  maddened 
face  for  the  last  time.  Ghazee  Schamyl  dare  never 
again  venture  north  of  the  Araxes.  The  ancestral 
coronet  will  never  rest  upon  his  traitor  brows. 

As  his  nodding  squadrons  wind  around  the 
gorges,  Ahmed  recalls  the  dying  disclosure  of  his 
old  henchman.  When  the  war  is  done  he  will  trace 
out  the  history  of  the  gentle  shade  whose  memory 
seems  to  bless  him  even  in  these  wild  hills.  He 
is  Russian  by  blood  !  He  can  now  see  the  springs  of 
the  deadly  hatred  of  his  Moslem  brother. 

Ghazee  Schamyl,  dreaming  of  empire,  feared  the 
influence  of  the  Russian  government  in  Ahmed's 
favor. 

The  Princess  Orbelian  !  Ahmed  dreamily  re 
members  an  old  Russian  family  of  that  name. 

There  are  few  left  to  bear  it.  When  St.  Peters 
burg  crowns  his  love  with  the  sound  of  wedding 
bells,  he  will  solve  this  mystery. 

Tired  and  happy,  proud  of  his  mission,  glad  to 
avoid  this  border  war,  Schamyl  pushes  sharply  to 
ward  the  Iron  Gate. 

Three  days  later,  in  splendid  array,  his  two  squad 
rons  rend  the  air  with  their  wild  parting  "  houras," 
as  the  train  rolls  away  for  Kertsch. 

Schamyl.  is  joyous.  The  magic  telegraph  brings 
him  loving  words  from  the  fairy  princess  who  holds 
the  empire  of  his  heart. 

Before  he  reaches  Plevna,  the  circle  of  his  friends 


260  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

at  Tiflis  will  be  safe  on  the  Neva,  far  away  from 
war's  alarms. 

At  Kertsch,  waiting  for  the  train,  he  obtains  his 
telegrams  and  letters.  The  route  to  Rustchuk  and 
Plevna  lies  open.  The  Grand  Army  of  the  Danube 
is  wild  with  joy.  The  ramparts  of  Plevna  are  at 
last  under  Russian  colors.  The  grim  Grivitzka  re 
doubt  is  in  the  hands  of  the  victorious  Muscovites. 
Osman  Pacha  wounded  and  a  prisoner  ! 

Ten  days  later,  Prince  Schamyl,  before  his  august 
Emperor,  a  crowned  Caesar,  in  the  midst  of  his  vic 
torious  army,  delivers  his  sacred  trust. 

Over  the  historic  Danube,  past  the  scarred  battle 
fields,  through  the  ranks  of  a  huge  army  in  panoply 
of  victory,  past  the  world-famous  lines  of  Plevna, 
Schamyl  has  safely  borne  the  papers  from  one  vic 
torious  Romanoff  to  his  imperial  victor  brother  and 
master.  Right  and  left  the  Russian  legions  are 
pressing  on  the  flying  Turks.  It  is  revenge  every 
where. 

Shipka  Pass  and  Philippopolis  add  to  the  glories  of 
the  winter  harvest  of  victories.  Gourko  is  over  the 
Balkans  ! 

Greeted  by  old  comrades,  happy  in  the  telegraphed 
arrival  of  the  Lazareff  family  at  St.  Petersburg, 
Ahmed  Schamyl's  heart  is  now  at  rest. 

Princess  Maritza  is  safe  on  the  Neva,  and  her  lover, 
the  hero  of  the  Araxes,  is  attached  to  the  glittering 
staff  of  the  Emperor  as  aide-de-camp. 

Burning  with  ardor  to  rejoin  the  queen  of  his  heart, 
Schamyl  yet  cheerfully  heads  his  steed  for  Constan 
tinople.  The  Russian's  wild  desire ! 

On  to  St.  Sophia  ! — the   army  presses.     Winter 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  261 

snows,  desperate  Turks  at  bay,  suffering  and  hard 
ship,  fail  to  withstand  the  gray-coated  legions  in 
their  holy  crusade. 

One  shadow  only  rests  upon  Schamyl.  Platoff, 
friend  of  his  boyish  days,  is  not  a  sharer  of  the  trium 
phant  march  onward.  Desperately  wounded  in  the 
battle  of  Lovtscha,  he  is  now  at  St.  Petersburg,  just 
able  to  crawl  around.  A  Turkish  bayonet-wound 
makes  his  pale  cheeks  interesting  to  the  ladies,  who 
adore  the  man  who  pushed  his  rifled  guns  into  the 
flaming  crater  with  Skobeleff,  the  Ney  of  the  Rus 
sian  service.  Assuring  himself  of  his  friend's  safety, 
Schamyl  rides  proudly  in  the  Emperor's  train  on  that 
long  path  of  glory  which  leads  to  Adrianople.  The 
last  guns  are  fired.  The  rifle  rings  no  longer  along  the 
Danube.  There  are  no  more  yawning  grave-trenches 
to  fill.  For  the  magnificent  legions  of  the  Czar  are 
encamped  at  San  Stefano. 

Six  miles  from  Constantinople,  the  hosts  of  Alex 
ander  greet  their  Emperor,  and  crown  him  with  the 
laurels  of  his  greatest  campaign.  There  before  them 
lies  the  great  city  of  the  Moslem  at  the  mercy  of 
the  Russian  conqueror.  Only — England  ? 

The  last  day  of  January  in  1878  ceases  the  work 
of  the  sword.  It  is  the  pen  which,  in  a  few  brief 
flourishes,  now  consecrates  the  armistice.  The  vet 
eran  soldier  sleeps  upon  his  arms,  victorious,  yet 
warily  expectant.  The  cup  of  victory  is  not  drained 
to  the  dregs.  St.  Sophia  yet  bears  the  hated  cres 
cent  above  its  desecrated  shrines.  Prince  Schamyl, 
too,  lays  aside  the  sabre  for  the  pen.  The  uncertain 
post,  from  the  far  north,  brings  him  tidings  of  Maritza. 
Chafing  like  a  caged  panther,  Schamyl  waits  for  the 


262  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

word  to  return  to  the  city  which  is  now  to  him  a 
jewel  casket.  His  treasure  is  there  !  Paper  missives 
keep  alive  Cupid's  sharpshooting  at  long  range. 

In  the  splendid  circle  around  the  Emperor,  great 
as  Gourko  shines  in  fame,  high  as  soars  the  star  of 
Skobeleff,  no  one  is  nearer  the  person  of  the  master 
of  the  icy  world  than  the  indefatigable  Ignatief. 

Following  in  fire  and  flame  his  lord,  he  now  coquets 
with  Savfet  Pacha  over  the  veriest  trifles  of  diplo 
macy.  Harvest  time  in  winter  ! 

The  cunning  soldier-statesman  has  a  list  of 
demands  which  appalls  even  the  Turk  upon  his  knees. 
The  road  to  Persia  is  safe.  Armenia  is  Russian  now. 
But  there  is  no  barrier  between  the  autocrat  of 
Russia  and  St.  Sophia  save  his  plighted  word  to  the 
Queen  of  England,  that  he  will  not  permanently 
occupy  Constantinople. 

The  victorious  army  murmurs  and  demands  its 
prey,  now  in  sight.  The  long-wished-for  goal  of  the 
Russian !  Skobeleff  rages  and  fumes  at  the  sight 
of  the  golden  domes  from  which  he  would  tear 
down  the  Moslem's  dishonoring  crescent.  Generals, 
princes,  brothers  of  the  blood,  demand  to  be  led  in 
triumph  into  Constantinople. 

Schamyl,  tired  of  feasting  and  inactivity,  weary  of 
the  hours  idly  wearing  along,  in  waiting,  learns  by 
the  telegraph  that  Batoum  is  in  Russian  hands. 

The  gallant  Mehemed  Pacha  has  led  out  his  un- 
conquered  troops  from  Erzeroum.  Peace  reigns  in 
Armenia.  The  road  to  India  is  clear  for  the  Rus 
sian  legions  of  the  future. 

Seated  in  his  room,  awaiting  the  assembly  of  the 
princely  throng  who  gather  at  the  Emperor's  table, 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  263 

Schamyl  loses  his  occupation  of  counting  the  crawl 
ing  minutes.  A  new  quest  awaits  him. 

A  headquarters  aide  dashes  up,  saluting  as  he 
enters. 

"  Prince  Schamyl  will  report  instantly  to  General 
Count  Ignatief  for  a  special  service." 

He  springs  to  his  feet,  gathering  up  his  sword, 
cloak,  and  turban. 

As  he  descends  the  stairway,  his  orderly  hands 
him  a  telegram. 

It  is  from  Gronow,  the  faithful  and  gallant.  As 
he  hastens  to  General  Ignatief's  quarters,  he  tears  it 
open.  He  reads  with  a  wildly  leaping  heart  : 

"GoOMRi(by  messenger  from  Erzeroum), 
February  5,  1878. 

"  Treachery  threatens  Maritza.  Ghazee  plots  mischief .  I  learn  this 
here  from  Mehemed  at  Erzeroum  by  private  message.  Watch  over 
her  in  St.  Petersburg.  Some  deadly  peril.  Act  instantly.  He 
seeks  revenge.  He  is  with  Ismail,  the  Kurd,  in  the  hills.  He  has 
means  of  secretly  communicating  with  Petersburg  agents.  Have 
notified  Lazareff  at  Kars.  Answer  to  Goomri. 

"GRONOW." 

Schamyl's  heart-strings  are  thrilling  when  he 
gallops  up  to  General  Ignatief's  quarters. 

He  knows  now  the  bleeding  crown  of  thorns 
which  fate  presses  on  Maritza's  brow  instead  of  a 
chaplet  of  roses.  Still  the  implacable  hatred  of 
the  deserter ! 

Maritza  !  Orphaned  !  Alone  !  Only  guarded  by 
gentle  Madame  Lazareff.  What  dark  plot  may  be 
the  supreme  effort  of  this  fanatic  fiend  ?  His  mur 
derous  bullet  pierced  the  one  heart  true  to  him  in 
his  reckless  path.  What  is  his  fell  design  now  ? 


264  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

Only  a  Circassian  can  know  the  Tcherkess  heart, 
—the  awful  oath  upon  the  amulets. 

Nailed  down  by  the  iron  hand  of  duty,  he  can 
only  pray,  only  pour  out  his  heart  in  invocation  to 
the  great  Father  of  mercies  for  the  safety  of  the 
lovely  one  who  has  already  borne  love's  cross. 

Seated  at  a  table  heaped  with  papers,  a  campaign 
map  spread  out  before  him,  Nicolas  Ignatief  hardly 
sees  the  young  general  who  waits  the  orders  of  the 
coming  dictator. 

The  count's  roving  eyes  follow  the  lines  of  the 
Bosporus  and  Sea  of  Marmora. 

Lifting  his  head  suddenly,  a  wintry  smile  plays 
on  his  worn  face. 

"  My  young  chieftain  once  more  !  I  have  another 
task  for  you." 

With  intuition  he  sees  the  storm  of  internal 
mental  conflict  on  the  young  man's  mobile  face. 

Love  against  duty  ! 

"  Be  seated,  Prince.  Are  you  ill  ?  "  he  asks  with 
a  real  concern. 

"  It  is  nothing,  General.  I  am  well  enough,  but  I 
am  in  trouble,"  Schamyl  wearily  answers. 

What  to  him  are  stars,  medals,  and  honors  if  he  can 
not  shield  the  one  beloved  head  from  the  nameless 
death  which  hovers  over  it  far  away  by  the  icy  Neva  ? 

"  Let  us  talk  of  duty  first,  Prince.  Then,  if  I  can 
aid  you,  permit  me  to  offer  my  assistance." 

It  is  worthy  of  the  world-worn  champion  of  the 
Czar,  for,  strange  to  say,  Ignatief  has  a  heart. 

He  is  not  quite  Machiavellian,  though  nearly  so. 
With  grave  preoccupation  Ignatief  begins.  Scha 
myl  is  the  mute  instrument  of  the  Czar  once  more. 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  265 

"  Your  perfect  discretion,  and  the  zeal  with  which 
you  have  fulfilled  your  duty  in  the  war,  place  you 
now  in  a  very  important  position. 

"  I  know  you  are  a  good  soldier." 

Schamyl  bows. 

"  I  am  going  to  make  you  a  sailor,  and  also  give 
you  a  glimpse  of  statesmanship. 

"  We  stand  on  the  verge  of  a  fresh  collision — per 
haps  a  second  bloody  war.  The  armistice  may  be 
broken  any  moment. 

"  We  have  gained  all  in  Europe  we  fought  for. 
We  have  the  royal  road  to  Persia,  India,  and  Asia 
assured. 

u  I  am  on  the  eve  of  signing  the  final  peace  with 
Savfet  Pacha.  But  the  Turks  have  lately  assumed  a 
defiant  attitude.  They  are  strengthening  their  de 
fences.  Every  battalion  released  from  Asia  Minor 
is  pouring  in  here.  We  fear  a  collision. 

"  The  Emperor  is  urged  on  by  the  mad  section  of 
the  army  to  enter  Constantinople. 

"He  is  holding  back  the  turbulent  chiefs,  while  I 
strain  every  nerve  to  sign  this  peace  and  save  the 
solid  fruits  of  this  war. 

"  A  new  enemy  menaces  us.  We  may  lose  all. 
A  single  quarrel,  diplomatic  or  military,  would  take 
the  situation  out  of  my  hands." 

"And  the  new  enemy,  General  ?  "  inquires  Schamyl. 

"  Is  England's  fleet,"  replies  the  man  of  the  hour. 
"  I  have  borrowed  a  yacht  from  Prince  Doria  of  Genoa. 
She  is  all  ready.  I  wish  you  to  run  down  to  Tene- 
dos  and  watch  the  English  ironclads.  I  know  they 
will  come  up  as  far  as  Besika  Bay.  The  English 
minister  Layard  is  coquetting  with  the  other  foreign 


266 


ministers.  The  Porte  fears  us.  It  dare  not  give 
them  permission  to  cover  Constantinople.  It  dreads 
to  refuse.  We  are  using  unstinted  gold  to  gain 
secret  service  reports,  from  the  attaches  of  the  other 
embassies. 

"  I  expect  every  moment  an  official  threat  from 
Layard  that  the  fleet  wi\).  come  up,  with  or  without 
permission.  If  they  force  their  way  to  the  city,  it  is 
an  act  of  war.  You  will  have  a  naval  attache  to 
direct  the  yacht.  It  is  the  swiftest  in  the  Orient. 
Here  are  your  orders.  You  are  to  cling  to  the 
movements  of  the  fleet.  The  yacht  flies  the  Italian 
flag.  I  will  line  the  shore  with  spies  and  signal  men. 
Should  the  English  ironclads  steam  to  the  city,  you 
are  to  run  ahead  with  all  speed.  When  they  actually 
move  up  to  the  walls  of  Istambol,  you  are  to  hoist 
the  imperial  Russian  standard  at  the  mainmast,  and 
run  direct  through  the  Bosporus.  Your  flag  will 
be  watched  for  from  San  Stefano.  Hoist  it  when 
abreast  of  our  lines." 

Schamyl  ponders.  "  And  if  fired  at  or  chased  ?  " 
he  doubtfully  mutters. 

"  Press  your  boat  ahead,  and  keep  the  imperial 
flag  flying  as  long  as  a  plank  holds  together." 

Prince  Ahmed  is  very  grave.  His  waiting  bride 
may  never  see  him ! 

Ignatief  slowly  closes.  "  I  have  selected  you  for 
your  nerve,  coolness,  and  judgment.  The  officer 
who  goes  with  you  will  report  every  technical  move 
ment.  He  will  have  his  own  assistants.  On  you, 
Prince  Ahmed,  depends  an  awful  responsibility." 

The  old  Muscovite  statesman-soldier  speaks  sol 
emnly  : 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  267 

"  If  you  come  to  the  Bosporus  with  the  imperial 
flag  flying,  the  whole  army  will  assault  the  Turkish 
lines.  We  will  open  our  batteries  on  the  fleet  and 
city.  It  will  mean  war  with  England.  It  may 
decide  the  fate  of  India,  or  it  may  carry  a  new 
enemy  to  the  gates  of  Moscow."  He  sighs  wearily. 

Schamyl  accepts  this  as  more  desperate  than  a 
forlorn  hope.  He  may  earn  the  Emperor's  sanction. 

"  I  am  ready,"  he  says  simply. 

"For  God,  for  Russia,  and  for  the  Czar,  go,  my 
young  friend.  England,"  says  Ignatief,  musing,  "has 
one  man  at  home  who  sees  that  the  fate  of  India, 
the  dominion  of  Asia,  the  railway  from  Batoum  to 
Baku,  the  railway  to  the  Chinese  border,  may  be  de 
layed  twenty  years  by  a  fiasco  here.  It  must  not  be. 
The  pen  must  save,  now  what  the  sword  has  gained. 
They  have  awakened  too  late  to  the  enormous  gains 
we  have  made  in  Asia  Minor.  We  must  not  be 
embroiled  here."  Ignatief  resumes: 

"  As  soon  as  the  treaty  is  definitely  signed,  you 
will  be  recalled.  I  will  send  down  the  legation 
launch.  Till  then,  for  life  and  death,  for  your 
honor,  cruise  carefully  around  the  advance  of  the 
fleet.  The  Prince's  Islands  are  a  convenient  cover. 
I  will  know  what  they  say  to  me.  You  must  show 
me  what  they  will  do." 

"  I  depart  at  once,  your  Excellency." 

"  Instantly,  as  soon  as  you  can  get  in  mufti,  I  will 
send  an  aide  to  conduct  you  to  the  yacht.  You 
have  carte  blanche. 

"  But  you  are  in  some  trouble,"  Ignatief  kindly 
says.  "  Let  me  help  you,  while  you  bear  some  of 
mine.  What  is  it  ?  " 


268  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

Schamyl  hands  Ignatief  the  despatch  of  Gronow. 
He  briefly  explains  its  import. 

The  general's  brow  grows  stern. 

"  Ah  !  that  devil  Ghazee  !  We  must  act  at  once." 
He  rings  his  bell. 

In  an  instant,  a  sheaf  of  telegraph  blanks  is 
brought  in. 

"  Write  any  despatches  you  wish,  to  Petersburg, 
Kars,  Tiflis,  Goomri,  Erzeroum.  I  will  send  them 
in  the  imperial  cipher. 

"  The  chief  of  the  Third  Section  is  here  in  attend 
ance  on  the  Emperor.  He  will  have  a  special  guard 
of  the  secret  police  watch  the  Lazareff  mansion. 
I  myself  will  telegraph  Melikoff  and  Lazareff. 
You  shall  have  the  whole  power  of  the  Emperor  to 
save  that  lovely  girl." 

Schamyl's  pencil  is  flying.  To  Gronow,  to  de 
spatch  personally  to  Madame  Lazareff,  to — yes, 
to  Paul  PlatofT.  He  is  bright  and  resolute.  To 
Maritza  herself — ah,  no  !  Only  love  and  greetings 
to  her. 

Fast  as  they  fly  from  his  fingers  the  cipher  clerks 
are  transforming  them.  In  an  adjoining  room  the 
keys  click. 

Ahmed  pauses.     His  work  is  done. 

Is  there  any  one  who  can  counteract  this  devil's 
long-range  villany ?  Any  one  else?  He  has,  then, 
fellow  conspirators  in  Petersburg  ! 

He  looks  at  the  blood-red  ruby  on  his  finger. 
Yes,  great  heavens,  Abdallah  the  jeweller!  He  is 
past  master  of  the  Moslem  secrets  of  Armenia. 

Schamyl  explains  to  General  Ignatief  his  faith  in 
Abdallah. 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  269 

"  Say  no  more,  Prince.  I  know  him.  I  will  have 
him  sent  by  special  train  to  St.  Petersburg  and 
attached  to  Madame  Lazareff's  household,  as  guest. 
He'shall  stay  till  you  return. 

"  When  this  treaty  is  signed,  when  your  duty  is 
completed,  I  will  give  you  that  yacht  to  take  you 
to  Odessa,  and  you  can  receive  us  in  Petersburg.  I 
see  you  would  be  happier  watching  over  her  your 
self."  He  smiles  even  in  his  friendly  anxiety. 

"  It  is  so,  General.  She  is  my  promised  wife," 
Schamyl  proudly  answers. 

"  I  myself  will  gain  you  the  Emperor's  permission 
for  this  marriage,"  the  diplomat  answers. 

"  Go  now.  Remember,  your  hand  will  throw  the 
whole  army  on  the  works,  if  you  hoist  that  flag.  'I 
will  watch  over  your  bride  to  be." 

In  a  half  hour  the  dark,  snaky  Genova  is  glid 
ing,  like  a  fleeting  vision,  down  the  blue  waters  of 
the  Sea  of  Marmora. 

Three  days  after,  as  Prince  Ahmed  walks  the 
deck,  gazing  on  the  first  evening  stars  rising  over 
the  bluest  waters  of  old  ocean — his  great  secret  of 
state  locked  in  his  breast — he  sweeps  for  the  last 
time  the  southern  waste  of  blue  waters. 

His  colleague  touches  his  arm.  "There  they 
are." 

Four  black  specks  in  the  distance — mere  dots 
upon  the  water. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  Schamyl  questions. 

"  //  is  the  English  fleet  heading  for  Besika  Bay  !  " 

Schamyl's  heart  gives  one  sudden  bound.  Will 
it  be  his  fate  to  bring  on  the  long-delayed  war  to 
the  death  between  the  lion  and  bear? 


270  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

Southward  the  dainty  yacht  speeds,  her  delicate 
lines  quivering  under  the  throb  of  the  superb 
engines. 

In  an  hour  he  clearly  sees  the  mighty  floating 
fortresses  forging  sullenly  along. 

Monsters  of  the  deep.  Yes,  the  keen-eyed  pro 
fessional  spies  on  board,  make  them  out. 

Alexandria,  Devastation,  Sultan,  Achilles — the 
huge  engines  of  refined  human  deviltry.  Hornby's 
flag  flies  on  the  Devastation. 

When  their  enormous  anchors  rattle  down  at  the 
rendezvous,  far  down  the  gulf  are  two  more  grim 
sea  monsters  slowly  following  up  in  the  wake  of 
the  first  leviathans.  England's  might ! 
.  Not  a  half-hour's  sleep  visits  Schamyl's  eyelids 
in  this  long  night.  The  uneasy  dreams  of  the 
warrior  are  a  torture.  When  daylight  blushes  over 
the  eastern  hills,  the  yacht,  rounding  and  curving 
along  the  shores,  runs  near  enough  to  see  the  blood- 
red  flag  of  England  flying  over  these  floating  steel 
castles — their  huge  fires  banked  down.  They  are 
clearing  for  action  ! 

Ominous,  ready,  imposing,  they  swim  in  sluggish 
menace  on  the  ocean  waves,  yet  ruled  by  Britannia! 

A  long  day  passed  ;  there  is  time  to  exhaust  every 
pretence  of  pleasure  sailing. 

Torn  with  anxieties,  questioning  the  great  white 
stars  above  him  in  his  lonely  watches,  Schamyl  holds 
his  post  with  a  bosom  torn  with  a  thousand  fears. 

Vessels  pass  up  and  down  the  gulf;  all  is  peace 
so  far,  for  no  rumor  reaches  the  little  villages 
where  the  yacht  enters.  The  black  giants  lie  still 
in  ugly  readiness.  They  give  but  little  signs  of  life. 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  271 

Prince  Ahmed's  heart  stiffens  into  stone.  No 
relief,  no  change,  no  daily  duty  save  to  bear  alone 
the  weight  of  his  responsibility,  the  burden  of 
Ignatief's  prudence.  And  Maritza  in  deadly 
danger ! 

It  is  the  thirteenth  of  February  when  a  fishing 
felucca  drives  down  the  gulf,  like  a  wild  sea-bird 
seeking  its  foamy  nest  on  the  ocean  surge. 

The  Genova  is  artfully  moving  on  her  now  familiar 
patrol.  Each  vessel,  each  shallop  is  keenly  watched, 
for  his  orders  tell  him  some  means  might  be  found 
to  warn  or  guide  him. 

As  the  felucca  nears  the  yacht,  bearing  down  the 
gulf,  a  tiny  flag  flutters  at  the  peak  and  is  dipped 
three  times. 

Schamyl  bounds  to  his  feet.  His  colleague  directs 
the  course  of  the  vessel.  A  signal ! 

In  ten  minutes  the  felucca  is  alongside.  With  a 
few  reverse  throbs  of  the  screw,  the  course  of  the 
yacht  is  stayed. 

A  gayly  dressed  Greek  fisherman  throws  a  line  on 
board.  Drifting  side  by  side,  as  the  vessels  float  on 
the  blue  tide,  the  Cypriote  springs  over  the  low 
quarter. 

Before  Schamyl  can  advance,  the  fisher  is  at  his 
side.  A  little  billet  is  in  his  hands.  Ahmed  recog 
nizes  the  brief  signal  which  accompanied  its  deliv 
ery  ,— the  secret  service  ! 

Tearing  it  open,  he  glues  his  eyes  upon  the  few 
lines.  It  is  from  Nicolas  Ignatief  himself. 

Involuntarily  casting  his  eyes  toward  the  English 
monsters,  there  are  black  clouds  pouring  from  their 
funnels.  Has  it  come  at  last  ? 


272  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

As  the  dark  smoke  breaks  away  in  wreaths,  Ah 
med  reads  again  and  again  his  last  orders. 
"I3th: 

"  Layard,  English  minister,  notified  the  Porte  yesterday,  the 
fleet  would  come  up,  permission  or  no  permission.  I  have  sent 
Onon,  my  dragoman,  in  with  the  Emperor's  ultimatum.  If  the 
fleet  comes  to  the  city,  the  armistice  ends  when  they  pass  the  first 
battery.  All  in  readiness  for  the  assault. 

"  Remember  your  duty.  The  movement  depends  on  you  alone. 
The  foreign  ministers  protest.  We  will  fight  ! 

"Treaty  ready  to  be  signed  to-morrow.  Watch  the  fleet  every 
instant.  Be  ready  to  move  at  highest  speed.  Make  no  mistake.  If 
they  come  beyond  Besika  Bay,  we  shall  begin  to  move  the  troops. 

"  IGNATIEF." 

An  hour  passes  on ;  the  felucca  is  far  away — a 
mere  speck  dancing  on  the  waters.  Another  hour; 
smoke  still  pouring  from  the  funnels.  Two  hours 
afterward,  the  bows  of  the  monsters  are  swarming 
with  men.  It  is  war! 

Slowly,  like  drifting  black  clouds  moving  on  a 
midnight  sky,  the  fleet  under  way  steams  toward 
the  Sea  of  Marmora. 

Three  miles  before  it,  cutting  across  their  path, 
the  Genova  leaps  through  the  water  and  runs 
toward  the  nearest  headlands. 

The  great  yellow  banner  with  its  double-headed 
eagle  is  reeved  on  the  halyards  ready  for  the  hand 
of  Schamyl.  Will  they  pass  in  ? 

Onward,  moving  grandly,  the  vessels  forge  along, 
like  a  school  of  enormous  whales. 

Two  hours  now  will  decide  the  fate  of  Constan 
tinople.  The  blood  clicks  in  Ahmed's  temples  like 
the  movement  of  machinery. 

By  his  side,  the  naval  attache  quietly  directs  the 
movement  of  the  yacht. 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  273 

Ha  !  Far  away  on  the  headland  a  little  flag  which 
talks!  It  flutters,  and  at  the  masthead  of  the  lead 
ing  ironclad  there  are  busy  signal  pennants  dis 
played. 

It  is  a  message  of  awful  import. 

The  feeble  waving  of  those  bits  of  party-colored 
rag  brings  the  great  ocean  monsters  to  a  halt. 

In  slanting  course,  as  ocean  birds  wing  the  upper 
air,  they  draw  in  toward  the  sheltering  shores  and 
drop  the  mighty  anchors  once  more. 

The  funnel  smoke  drifts  away.  The  might  of 
England  stays  its  onward  course.  A  breathing 
spell. 

Is  it  peace  ?  Is  it  the  heavy  hand  of  imperial  Ger 
many  ?  The  harsh  challenge  of  fiery  France?  Is 
it  the  voice  of  the  bevy  of  ambassadors  crying, 
"  Hold  off — in  the  name  of  Europe !  "  which  says, 
"  No  thoroughfare." 

Ahmed  Schamyl  cannot  tell.  His  whole  nature 
sinks  under  the  reaction  of  these  exciting  hours. 
Pride  fills  his  bosom  !  His  soldierly  spirit  tells  him 
it  was  the  gauntlet  thrown  down  by  the  Czar,  the 
defiance  of  the  northern  colossus,  which  seals  those 
feebly  guarded  sea  gates. 

Ready  at  a  moment  to  move  ahead,  the  Genova 
clings  to  the  advance  of  the  war  vessels.  The  night 
passes.  Before  Schamyl  rouses  from  the  deep  sleep 
of  exhaustion,  the  Russian  embassy's  launch  is 
swinging  alongside  the  Genova. 

An  aide  in  full  uniform  leaps  lightly  to  the  deck. 
Saluting  Schamyl,  he  hands   him  a  letter.     Worn 
with  night  watching,  torn  by  anxiety,  Prince  Ah 
med's  hand  trembles  like  a  leaf  in  the  storm. 

18 


274  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

The  words  are  few  : 

"  Return  in  the  launch  with  your  associate.  Send  yacht  leisurely 
back  to  Golden  Horn.  Treaty  signed  yesterday. 

11  IGNATIEF." 

In  a  half-hour  the  legation  launch  speeds  like  an 
arrow  along  the  sheltering  shores.  Home  to  Ma- 
ritza  !  Love's  shining  beacon  leads  him — home  ! 

As  Schamyl  seats  himself  in  the  cabin,  his  merry 
associates  are  pledging  the  health  of  the  Emperor. 

A  burning  fever  rages  in  his  veins ;  he  throws 
himself  on  the  cushions.  His  papers,  his  secret 
orders,  his  belongings  all  there.  His  duty  is  done  ! 

Yes !  And  the  baffled  sea  monsters  are  receding 
in  the  distance.  Back  to  the  permanent  anchorage 
of  Besika  Bay  ! 

It  is  all  over.  The  lion  and  bear  will  not  yet 
grapple  to  the  death.  Layard's  signals  to  the  fleet 
told  them  the  story  of  the  peace. 

And  Schamyl  is  so  tired,  so  weary !  His  eyes 
have  been  strained  by  day  and  night.  His  nerves 
are  worn  and  shaken.  His  own  love  in  danger! 

Draining  a  glass  of  champagne,  he  dimly  sees, 
though  the  blue  wreaths  of  the  papyrus,  his  naval 
guide  and  the  aide  most  loyally  going  down  the 
gradations  of  all  the  regular  toasts  in  bumpers. 

His  aching  eyes  close  in  sleep.  The  yacht  is  far 
behind  under  half  speed,  steadily  moving  for  the 
Golden  Horn. 

It  is  all  darkness  in  the  little  cabin  when  Ahmed 
awakes.  Friendly  hands  are  on  him  ;  he  is  struggling 
violently. 

A  gleam  struggles  through  the  binnacle.  His 
friends  are  holding  him. 


PRINCE   SCHAMYL  S  WOOING.  275 

"Are  you  well,  Prince?  What  is  the  matter?" 
They  are  both  anxiously  clinging  to  him  ! 

"  I  know  not,"  Schamyl  mutters,  "  that  dream, 
that  vision  !  I  am  better." 

Lights  are  at  hand. 

He  wonders  at  the  faces  of  his  excited  friends. 

The  aide  laughs  :  "  You  nearly  had  me  throttled, 
General !  I  fear  you  are  worn  out  with  your 
cruise.  You  are  a  tiger  !  " 

The  naval  associate  hands  Ahmed  a  glass  of  brandy 
— the  sailor's  panacea  for  all  the  ills  that  flesh  is  heir  to. 

"  Drink  this,  Prince.  You  were  seized  with  a  ner 
vous  chill.  We  had  our  hands  full  to  quiet  you." 

The  Circassian  drains  the  fiery  glass.  His  head 
falls  exhausted  on  the  divan.  The  boat  speeds  on 
in  the  hushed  glory  of  the  early  morning  hours, 
under  the  trembling  stars  of  night,  to  the  lines  where 
a  hundred  thousand  men  sleep  in  peace  around  the 
ruler  of  the  mighty  frozen  North  !  For  the  treaty 
is  signed  at  last ! 

Schamyl  cannot  close  his  eyes !  In  his  troubled 
sleep  an  awful  vision  froze  his  blood. 

It  comes  back — that  dream  ! 

Yes  ;  Maritza  the  beloved — never  more  lovely, 
never  more  radiant — in  white,  with  clinging  lace  and 
great  pearls  of  Ormuz  around  her  snowy  neck! 

She  smiles  and  leans  forward.  Heavens !  that 
glimpse  of  paradise  gives  way  to  another  tableau. 
While  his  outstretched  arms  are  reached  to  clasp 
her  to  his  bosom,  she  is  changed. 

Lying  white  and  pale,  her  hands  dropping  by  her 
side  in  death's  relaxed  abandonment,  her  lovely 
head  low  lying,  her  eyes  closed,  and  one  is  bending 


276  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

over — a  man  ;  his  face  is  turned  away.  He  tears 
something  from  her  hand.  Who  is  he  ?  Ah  !  Ah 
med's  leap  and  effort  to  stay  the  spoiler  of  this  fair 
est  of  maids  awakened  him. 

It  was  this  ! — Only  a  dream  ! — Thank  God  !  Only 
a  dream  !  a  mad  whirling  of  distorted  hopes,  wishes, 
fears,  and  fancies  across  his  mind  ! 

Silently,  listening  to  the  pulses  of  the  engines, 
Schamyl  drops  into  an  exhausted  slumber,  with  his 
whole  soul  lifted  up  in  invocation  for  the  orphaned 
queen  of  his  heart  so  far  away. 

"  The  war  is  over,"  he  murmurs,  as  his  eyes  close, 
"  and  now,  and  now  . 

Gravely  his  friends  watch  him  till  the  sunbeams 
dance  on  the  blue  ripples  off  San  Stefano.  Schamyl 
is  in  his  wonted  calm  again. 

Half  an  hour  after  the  boat  glides  along  the  quay, 
before  the  tented  homes  of  the  Czar's  legions, 
Schamyl  is  in  the  presence  of  Nicolas  Ignatief. 
The  camp  is  "  en  fete."  Even  the  grave  soldier- 
diplomat  is  merry  to-day. 

Bands  are  playing  ;  review  preparations  are  every 
where.  Gilded  aides  gallop  up  and  down,  marshalling 
the  great  columns,  setting  out  knightly  squadrons 
and  grim  batteries.  To-day  the  pride  of  Russia 
will  march  before  the  Czar. 

Ignatief  seizes  the  young  Circassian  joyfully  by 
both  hands. 

"  A  la  bonne  heure !  Schamyl,  you  have  done 
well.  Return  me  your  secret  orders." 

Prince  Ahmed  hands  over  his  directions.  A 
mountain  is  lifted  from  his  heart.  The  Czar's  trust ! 

As    Count    Ignatief   rings    for    the    ever-flowing 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  277 

champagne,  he  carelessly  tosses  the  packet  of  now 
useless  orders  in  the  fire.  It  is  a  glorious  winter  day. 

"  Our  English  friends  may  just  as  well  not  know 
how  near  this  grand  review  came  to  being  a  storm 
ing  assault  by  a  whole  army,"  the  great  count  mer 
rily  says.  "  They  have  baffled  us ;  but,  by  Saint 
Vladimir,  the  day  of  Russia's  reckoning  with  Eng 
land  will  yet  shake  its  rotten  throne  ! 

"  We  have  the  substantial  fruits  of  victory.  Tur 
key  in  Europe  and  the  principalities  are  definitely 
and  advantageously  arranged.  Erzeroum  is  evacu 
ated,  and  the  great  quadrilateral  of  Anatolia  is  in  our 
hands.  Our  position  in  Asia  Minor  will  be  made 
impregnable. 

"  In  five  years  you  will  see  a  railway  from  Poti  and 
Batoum  to  Tiflisand  Baku.  Then,  Armenia  can  never 
be  wrenched  from  us.  We  are  now  the  lords  of  the 
Black  and  Caspian.  Catherine's  will  is  our  guide. 

"  In  ten  years  our  military  railway  will  reach  Merv, 
Samarcand,  Tashkend,  and  wrap  our  English  friends 
in  a  steel  band  in  Asia. 

"  Onward  to  Khuldja  !  to  Irkutsk !  to  the  Pacific ! 
The  railroad  will  hold  us  Persia,  menace  India,  and 
control  China.  The  English  are  asleep  to  our  great 
march  overland.  We  will  seek  a  French  alliance. 

"  Let  us  drink  confusion  to  England's  plotting. 
They  spoiled  our  last  glass  of  wine  at  Constanti 
nople.  Prince,  they  cannot  spoil  this.  We  will 
meet  yet  in  a  war  to  the  death."  And  fiery  Ignatief 
clinks  glasses  with  the -Circassian  lover. 

"Count,"  queries  Schamyl,  "are  there  any  future 
operations  in  Armenia?  " 

"  Not    another   shot,"    gayly   responds    Ignatief. 


278  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

"  The  hundred  guns  salvo  fired  here  to-day  will  be 
echoed  at  every  post  in  Anatolia.  The  Grand  Duke 
Michael  also  reviews  his  gallant  army  to-day. 

"  We  will  leave  heavy  garrisons  in  Asia  Minor, 
for  our  interests  lead  us  toward  the  Persian  Gulf. 
We  will  have  sea  frontage  there.  England  can  then 
keep  her  useless  Suez  Canal. 

"  The  millions  of  barrels  of  oil  wasted  now  yearly 
at  Baku  must  be  spread  over  Asia  and  Russia  on  our 
railways  when  built.  The  great  war  with  England 
will  give  us  Constantinople  or  India.  Every  resource 
must  be  guarded  for  our  national  life  struggles. 

"  I  am  sorry,  Schamyl,  that  Prince  Tchavacha- 
vadze  will  lead  your  brigade  before  the  Grand  Duke 
Michael  to-day.  They  will  miss  you.  But — the 
Emperor  has  directed  you  to  head  all  the  Circassian 
cavalry  here  in  the  march  past.  You  are  now  the 
chief  of  Circassia." 

"And  then,  Count?"  Schamyl  asks  with  anxiety. 
The  compliment  escapes  him.  Love's  blindness  ! 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  Prince !  I  had  forgotten 
your  private  affairs.  I  have  some  letters  and  tele 
grams  for  you." 

He  commands  a  secretary  to  bring  them. 

Schamyl  eyes  them  hungrily. 

"  Read  your  telegrams,  Prince ! "  the  man  of 
many  wiles  kindly  adds. 

"You  can  enjoy  your  letters  on  the  boat,  for  as 
soon  as  the  review  is  over,  you  are  to  leave  for 
Odessa  with  the  first  despatches  to  the  ministry  of 
the  foreign  office.  Several  of  the  imperial  household 
go  on  the  same  boat.  You  will  have  a  special  train 
from  Odessa  to  Petersburg." 


TRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  279 

"  And  will  I  rejoin  my  command  in  Armenia  ?  " 
SchamyFs  eyes  are  downcast. 

"  Not  unless  we  must  fight  John  Bull  at  once." 

Ignatief  laughs  heartily,  raising  his  glass.  "  Your 
duties  as  aide-de-camp  to  the  Emperor,  General,  will 
detain  you  in  St.  Petersburg  until  the  imperial  staff 
arrive,  for  you  must  be  presented  on  your  promo 
tion" 

Prince  Ahmed  is  neglecting  his  wine.  A  harvest 
of  honors ! 

"  To  the  health  of  the  future  Princess  Schamyl !  " 
cries  the  old  count,  heartily.  "  We  can  give  you  a 
leave  now,  but  when  we  fight  England  you  must 
lead  a  Tcherkess  division  into  Asia.  The  day  will 
surely  come." 

Ahmed  understands  the  friendly  care  which  hur 
ries  him  to  the  Rose  who  waits  him  by  the  Neva. 
Ignatief  has  been  a  lover  !  A  man  of  many  arts ! 

The  telegrams  are  reassuring — Platoff,  Madame 
Lazareff,  and  also  Gronow. 

Thrusting  his  letters  in  his  bosom,  he  departs 
with  Ignatief  s  order  to  report  at  sundown  for  his 
despatches. 

"  Poor  fellow !  Hard  hit  by  a  pair  of  laughing 
eyes  !  "  Ignatief  muses.  "  Remarkably  fine  ones, 
by  the  way,"  he  mutters,  as  he  sends  his  subordi 
nates  flying  on  matters  of  moment. 

To  the  sound  of  thundering  cannon,  with  waving 
banners,  singing  trumpets,  and  rattling  drums,  proud, 
beautiful  martial  music  thrilling  on  the  thin  air — 
the  victorious  host  of  Russia  defiles  before  its  lord  ! 

Forests  of  bayonets,  thickets  of  lances,  lines  of 
grim  artillery,  with  the  tossing  crests  of  the  rarest 


280  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

cavalry  in  the  world,  flashing  by,  the  great  panorama 
unrolls  before  the  eyes  of  the  aged  Emperor. 

Princes,  generals,  grand  dukes  of  the  blood,  the 
whole  imperial  cortege  of  heroes  crowd  around  their 
master. 

Heroes  of  the  Danube  and  Plevna,  the  war-worn 
veterans  of  Shipka  Pass,  of  Loftscha,  the  daring 
stormers  of  the  Grivitza  redoubt,  the  men  of 
Gorni-Dubnik,  the  iron-hearted  soldiery  who  crossed 
the  snowy  Balkans,  file  by.  The  silent  half  of 
this  grand  army  lies  under  the  frozen  clay  of  the 
Danube  valley. 

Proudly  sweeping  past  :  sword,  lance,  pennon, 
and  banner  droop  before  the  mighty  Czar  of  all 
the  Russias. 

The  victors  of  Philippopolis  rend  the  air  with 
huzzas  !  The  sturdy  regiments  who  broke  the  pride 
of  Suleiman  Pacha,  the  grim  warriors  who  forced 
Osman  Pacha  the  Great  out  of  his  blood-bought 
stronghold,  cheer  the  old  sovereign  who  battles  for 
the  blue  and  white  cross. 

It  is  a  day  of  wild  rejoicing.  The  ground  shakes 
under  the  tread  of  the  mighty  host. 

Prince  and  paladin  sweep  by !  Frantic  yells 
greet  great  Gourko  with  his  silver  hair.  Long  roll 
ing  cheers  announce  the  knightly  person  of  the 
White  General,  Skobeleff,  the  man  of  the  charmed 
life. 

The  invincible  champion  dashes  by  his  Emperor, 
bowing  to  his  charger's  mane.  The  men  yell  with 
delight.  He  is  their  idol ! 

A  wild,  touching  pageant,  this, — the  passing 
of  the  patient,  plodding,  gray-coated  Muscovites, 


PRINCE   SCHAMYL'S    WOOING.  281 

whose  battle  song  for  the  Czar,  welcoming  the  red 
death  of  the  field,  is  their  last  sigh  for  Holy  Russia. 

Ahmed  Schamyl  leads  the  desperate  column  of 
the  peerless  Tcherkess  past  his  Emperor.  Nodding 
plume,  twinkling  lance,  and  jingling  sabre  excite  the 
restive  chargers  whose  dancing  feet  spurn  the 
ground. 

Prince  Schamyl,  lowering  his  sword  before  his 
sovereign,  knows  that  the  white  cross  flashing  on 
his  own  bosom,  gained  in  battle's  desperate  whirl, 
is  no  whiter  than  his  own  loyal  soul.  He  has  no 
fear  to  meet  now  the  kindly  eye  of  the  lord  of  Rus 
sia's  huge  domains.  Honor's  chaplet  is  on  his  brow. 

And  so,  saluting  the  ruler,  all  that  is  left  of  the 
Grand  Army  of  the  Danube  passes  proudly. 

Shoulder  to  shoulder  they  have  fought  their 
country's  fight !  Thousands  of  gallant  men's  hearts 
beat  sadly  to  think  their  bayonets  may  never  glisten 
again  upon  the  blood-stained  ramparts  they  have 
won.  Istambol  lies  humbled  at  their  feet. 

Alexander,  the  mighty  Emperor,  gazes  with 
dimmed  eyes  to  see  the  flower  of  the  service  pass 
with  depleted  ranks.  Thousands  in  the  swamps  of 
the  Danube,  tens  of  thousands  before  the  dull  red 
]  mounds  of  Plevna,  myriads  in  the  wild  defiles  of  the 
Shipka,  and  where  the  forest  ravens  linger  over 
the  graves  of  the  forgotten  brave  on  the  Balkans,— 
all  these  are  missing  from  the  lines. 

His  peerless  Household  Guards,  in  skeleton  ranks, 
remind  him,  as  they  sweep  on,  of  the  countless 
homes  in  Russia,  where,  from  palace  to  hut,  the 
shadow  of  death  and  sorrow  now  lingers. 

The    awful    heritage    of   the    heaviest    crown  on 


282  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

earth  weighs  the  Czar  down.  The  hereditary  policy 
of  Peter,  the  sacred  will  of  mighty  Catherine,  drives 
the  march  of  his  legions  ever  toward  India,  Persia, 
the  Gulf,  the  Far  East.  The  Emperor  is  biding  the 
time  when  (threatened  and  powerless  in  India), 
with  a  Franco-Russian  alliance  menacing  China, 
England  will  not  dare  to  block  the  way  to  yon  glit 
tering  dome  of  St.  Sophia. 

Fate  !  Destiny  !  Treason  !  A  strange  and  awful 
doom  is  leading'  the  mighty  victor  homeward — 
laurel  crowned — to  die  the  death  of  a  helpless  vic 
tim,  under  the  obscure  plots  of  frantic  conspirators. 

Vanitas  vanitatem  ! 

As  the  legions  march  away,  as  the  gray  clouds 
roll  around  and  wrap  the  city  of  Istambol  from  his 
sight,  Alexander  the  Conqueror,  balked  at  the  gates 
of  the  Black  Sea,  prays  that  some  day  the  gray 
Russian  horde  may  sweep  in  wild  triumph  over  the 
walls  of  Constantinople. 

Striving,  plotting,  building  fort,  city,  mart,  and 
railway,  forge  and  arsenal,  fleet  and  frontier  defence, 
the  Russian  lives  but  to  see  the  day  of  Constanti 
nople's  fall.  Shedding  new  oceans  of  blood,  the 
children  of  the  Czar  will  take  and  gain  Constan 
tinople,  in  the  face  of  even  England's  mighty  power. 

Far  on  the  tossing  Euxine,  before  the  bugles 
sound  the  last  signals  of  the  night,  Schamyl  presses 
northward  to  lay  his  laurels  at  the  feet  of  the  proud 
and  splendid  woman  who  waits  his  coming  in  the 
old  mansion  of  the  Lazareffs  on  the  Neva. 

As  he  stands  on  the  deck,  the  miles  of  lights  of 
the  great  camp  twinkle  afar  off. 

He  wonders  at  the  embattled  might  of  Russia  in 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  283 

arms.  Its  bugles  sing  reveille  from  the  Baltic  to 
the  blue  Pacific. 

The  merry  circle  in  the  cabin,  with  joyous  fes 
tivity,  celebrate  the  coming  joys.  Their  past  vic 
tories  are  lived  over.  They  pledge  the  hallowed 
memory  of  the  gallant  dead.  The  returning  officers 
are  mad  with  triumph.  Ahmed's  letters  give  him  a 
quiet  hour. 

Paul  PlatofT,  with  trembling  hand,  announces  his 
convalescence.  The  story  of  his  services  and 
wounds,  his  hours  of  pain  and  suffering,  touches 
the  friend  of  his  bosom. 

But  the  letter  falls  from  his  hand  in  blank  amaze 
ment  as  Schamyl  reads  the  close. 

"  I  will  say  but  little,  for  you  soon  will  be  here.  I  look  forward 
with  joy  to  meeting  you,  for  I  shall  soon  be  married  to  a  charming 
girl — an  orphan.  You  will  love  her  for  my  sake  and  her  own.  It 
is  the  young  Princess  Vera  Orbelian.  You  alone  must  be  my  wit 
ness  and  my  groomsman." 

Ahmed  Schamyl's  wondering  eyes  read  again. 
He  is  stunned,  and  his  lips  for  the  first  time  in  his 
life  frame  the  loving  words,  "  My  sister  /  " 


CHAPTER    XIII. 

BY  THE  NEVA. — GHAZEE'S  REVENGE  ! — AT  THE 
OPERA.— THE  LOST  HANDKERCHIEF. — DR.  AB- 
DALLAH. 

IT  has  been  a  winter  of  dark  sorrow  in  St.  Peters 
burg.  Except  by  the  officials,  the  valetudinarians, 
and  the  toilers,  the  capital  is  deserted. 

The   flower  of   Russia's   youth    has  trodden  the 


284  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

frozen  plains  of  Armenia  with  Melikoff,  or  followed 
grim  Gourko  in  his  deadly  race  to  Adrianople. 

And  yet  the  streets  are  thronged.  But  the  invisi 
ble  thread,  the  nerve-life  which  makes  the  metropolis, 
is  absent.  War?  Yes !  horrid  war  !  is  the  only  topic. 

Profoundly  glorious  in  the  gazette,  serious  in 
bureau  circles,  talked  of  with  bated  breath  by  the 
merchant,  abhorred  by  the  toiler  and  artisan, — the 
war  broods  over  all ! 

There  is  to-day  a  common  bond  which  knits 
together  all  Russian  womanhood  in  one  black  band 
of  mourning — the  gallant  dead. 

Prince  and  general  are  missed  from  mess,  club, 
and  palace.  The  dark  angel's  wing  sweeps  unpity- 
ingly,  touching  now  the  mansion,  now  the  hut. 
While  all  agree  that  certain  glorious  national  results 
are  sure  to  follow  the  wholesale  blood-letting,  many 
a  gallant  high-souled  patrician  woman  eyes  the  pict 
ure  of  the  unreturning  brave  in  heart-broken  silence. 
In  the  log  huts,  Marianka  howls  for  Ivan,  whose 
sturdy  breast  stopped  a  Turkish  bullet. 

War  is  woman's  foe,  her  plaything,  her  fascinat 
ing  enemy,  her  scourge.  It  leaves  her  widowed, 
sorrowing,  husbandless,  childless,  loverless !  And 
yet  woman  urges  man  on  to  conflict.  All  is  vanity  ! 

By  all  the  crystallized  tears  of  broken  woman 
hearts,  the  proud  tyrant,  the  juggling  diplomat, 
the  greedy  conqueror,  should  pause  before  they 
incarnadine  the  peaceful  fields  with  the  loyal  blood 
of  a  generation  of  brave  bread-winners. 

And  still  there  is  a  forced  and  feverish  gayety 
abroad.  A  reckless,  shifting,  insincere  merriment 
agitates  St.  Petersburg. 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  285 

Women  steal  from  ball  and  opera,  from  rout  and 
dinner,  to  gaze,  heart  hushed,  on  the  last  death 
bulletins.  They  turn  from  folly  with  white  lips 
to  murmur,  "  Who  next  ? " — to  say  "  Thank 
God ! "  if  the  whirlwind  blast  of  battle  spares  the 
beloved  ;  or  to  fall,  stricken  and  crouching  before 
God's  altar,  if  the  particular  Dimitri  or  Sacha's 
name  makes  the  long  black  death-roll  one  unit 
greater. 

Blessed  isolation  of  orphanhood !  It  limits  the 
range  of  family  griefs  in  times  like  these.  Princess 
Maritza  gazes  on  the  leaden  winter  skies  from  the 
granite  casements  of  the  Lazareff  mansion,  and 
fears  no  bolt  but  one. 

In  "  bashful,  maiden  art  "  she  guards  her  secret. 
It  is  to  God  alone  she  whispers  the  fervent  prayer 
that  one  gallant  darling  head  may  be  spared. 

Her  princely  lover!  Her  royal  born  consort  to 
be !  With  a  blush  she  bows  her  head  before  the 
shrine.  He  is  even  now  the  lord  of  her  pure  and 
stainless  heart.  In  the  high  empire  of  her  bosom 
he  reigns  a  czar  of  love. 

Laughing  Tia  Argutin,  merry  Nina  Lazareff  rally 
the  Princess  of  Georgia  upon  her  pale  cheeks,  her 
preoccupation. 

Tiflis  with  its  crowds  of  wounded,  the  city  filled 
with  the  debris  of  a  campaign,  is  no  pleasant  place 
for  a  family.  So  they  linger  on  the  Neva. 

Watchful  General  Lazareff  knows  the  mysterious 
fevers,  the  dangerous  epidemics  due  to  the  crowd 
ing  of  thousands  of  soldiers  in  narrow  areas. 

The  journey  to  St.  Petersburg,  long  and  tedious, 
was  welcome.  Each  day's  travel  bore  the  family 


286  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

farther  away  from  the  war-clouds  hovering  around 
the  Black  Sea  and  the  Caspian. 

The  shadows  faded  imperceptibly,  until  at  Peters 
burg  the  absence  of  the  court  and  the  great  mass  of 
the  higher  orders  was  the  only  sign  of  the  conflict. 

Comfortably  installed  by  the  Neva,  the  sound 
and  clash  of  battle  now  die  into  silence. 

Maritza  remembers  only  with  a  shudder  her  fear 
ful  dragging  captivity.  Those  months  buried  from 
the  world  in  the  dark  convent  cells  grow  a  memory. 
The  awful  scenes  of  the  storming  of  Kars  are  forgot 
ten.  The  grass  is  green  on  Nadya  Vronsky's  grave. 

Madame  Lazareff  with  graceful  tact  leads  Maritza 
away  from  all  sights  which  agitate. 

Maritza  owns  to  the  sweet  face  in  her  mirror, 
alone,  the  depth  and  fervor  of  her  passion  for  the 
young  hero  who  is  now  the  chief  of  Circassia. 

A  rosy  cherub  guards  her  pillow  at  night.  He 
whispers — finger  on  his  smiling  lip  :  "  He  loves 
you!" 

Every  day,  walking  in  the  deserted  gardens  of 
the  Winter  Palace,  she  watches  for  one  green  leaflet, 
the  forerunner  of  happy  spring. 

Dashing  along  the  Neva  bank  in  her  sleigh,  she 
prays  for  the  day  when  that  icy  flooring  will  break 
up  and  tumble  out  into  the  tossing  Baltic. 

The  great  fleets  of  fragrant  birch-wood  barges 
will  sweep  in  from  mighty  Ladoga  soon,  borne  in 
on  the  crystal  rush  of  the  melting  spring  floods. 

When  the  snows  shall  vanish  from  the  Champ  de 
Mars,  the  embattled  host  of  victors  will  there  parade 
their  shot-torn  ranks  before  the  mighty  Czar.  The 
splendid,  touching  pageant  will  fade  away,  until 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  287 

another  bugle  blast  shall  call  the  millions  ruled  by 
the  house  of  Romanoff  to  battle  for  Asia  and  India. 
None  are  feared  save  their  hereditary,  red-coated 
foes,  the  dreaded  English. 

Schamyl's  letters  but  faintly  fill  the  needs  of  Ma- 
ritza's  passionate  soul. 

Glaring  black  words  cannot  paint  the  ardent  feel 
ings  which  shine  in  her  eyes  as  she  dreams  of  Ahmed 
riding  beside  her  carnage  at  Tiflis. 

Pen  cannot  translate  or  fix  the  ecstasy  of  joy 
which  thrilled  her  heart  when  Schamyl's  loving 
words  called  her  back  to  life  on  the  plain  of  Kars. 
It  was  a  paradise  after  an  inferno  ! 

She  will  not  own,  even  to  herself,  the  raptures  of 
the  thrills  of  love  and  sorrow  in  the  fair  bosom  she  is 
queen  of,  when  he  led  her  in  the  proud  safeguard  of 
his  veteran  riders  back  to  Tiflis,  the  hero  of  the  hour. 

When  the  birds  return  from  the  south,  in  the  glit 
tering  circle  of  the  White  Czar  he  will  come.  The 
bravest  of  the  brave,  loyal,  true,  and  tender !  And 
then,  and  then  !  She  burns  for  the  day  when  the 
evening  shadows  will  show  no  parting  for  the  pil 
grims  of  love  ;  the  day  when  she  can  say  in  truth  : 
"  Ahmed,  my  own  !  Mine  only  !  " 

It  is  merry  enough  in  a  restrained  way.  Every 
day  brings  news  of  the  sweeping  and  final  successes 
of  the  Russian  arms.  At  least,  all  the  spent  blood 
and  treasure  have  not  been  wasted  in  useless 
defeat.  The  blue  and  white  cross  marches  on. 

There  are  stars  and  medals,  titles  and  dignities, 
rewards  and  honors,  to  be  showered  by  the  aged 
hand  of  a  grateful  Emperor  upon  the  living  relics  of 
the  men  who  faltered  not  in  Plevna's  darkest  hours. 


288  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

With  chastened  hearts  the  butterflies  of  fashion 
mourn  those  spirited  women  of  the  court  who 
thronged  to  the  poisonous  Dobrudsha  swamps  to 
nurse  the  wounded.  They  died  as  nobly  as  the  men 
in  arms. 

As  if  the  grave  were  never  satisfied  in  its  hunger 
for  prey,  disease  has  killed  as  many  heroes  as  the  bul 
lets  of  the  rampart-sheltered  Moslems. 

Scores  of  bright-eyed  ladies,  tender  and  true,  laid 
down  their  lives  in  their  self-appointed  work.  If 
there  is  a  woman  on  earth  whose  spirit,  fortitude, 
and  tenderness  will  bear  up  against  the  thousand  ills 
of  life,  it  is  the  Russian  wife,  mother,  and  maiden. 
From  high  to  low  in  rank — faithful,  ardent,  viva 
cious,  and  self-sacrificing — the  charm  of  their  singu 
lar  beauty  and  devotion  lingers  around  the  homes  of 
the  icy  north.  The  myrtle  grows  there  only  in  these 
tender  hearts,  whose  fires  of  love  are  perpetual. 

Fit  mothers  of  heroes!  Worthy  consorts  of  war 
riors  ! — these  daughters  of  Holy  Russia  ! 

Maritza  finds  a  wistful  tenderness  in  Madame 
Lazareff's  watchful  love.  Every  movement,  each 
step  of  her  life,  is  guarded.  And  the  roses  are  red 
in  her  cheeks ;  her  eye  beams  in  splendor. 

Maritza,  the  Rose  of  Tiflis,  knows  not  of  the  over 
shadowing  threat  of  the  fugitive  madman. 

One  oasis  blooms  in  the  desert  of  her  days.  To 
whom  can  she  pour  out  her  heart  life?  To  no  one 
save  the  absent  lover  !  To  one  only — Paul  Platoff  ! 

Yes  !  Paul  PlatofT  is  welcome  daily  at  the  Laza- 
reffs.  His  noble  face,  pale  with  his  sufferings,  lights 
up  as  he  leads  her  mind  to  the  absent  Prince  Schamyl. 

It  is  not  strange  his  sleigh  brings  him  every  after- 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING/.  289 

noon — that  he  is  welcomed  by  the  chatelaine  of 
the  house. 

His  bravery,  his  love  for  Ahmed,  and  his  distinc 
tion  give  him  a  warm  welcome.  Another  reason  binds 
them  together.  For  Paul  has  his  own  heart  secret ! 

The  beautiful  and  lonely  Princess  Orbelian  is  also 
an  orphan.  She  is  a  ward  of  the  Emperor.  Platoff 
relies  upon  the  unpaid  debt  of  Loftscha's  awful 
laurels,  to  obtain  the  permission  of  the  great  Alex 
ander  to  wed  his  noble  ward. 

Till  the  Emperor's  return,  Platoff  may  not  an 
nounce  himself  as  the  future  husband  of  the  princess. 

Too  delicate  to  monopolize  her  society — for  there 
everywhere  is  a  Mrs.  Grundy,  even  in  Russia — Paul 
artfully  begs  Madame  Lazareff  to  aid  his  innocent 
strategy.  He  meets  the  queen  of  his  awakened 
heart  in  the  society  of  Princess  Maritza,  at  her  own 
home. 

It  is  a  charming  trinity — two  who  love  each 
other,  one  who  loves  another. 

Educated  in  seclusion,  Princess  Orbelian  with 
eager  eyes  looks  forward  to  the  day  when  the  silent 
halls  of  her  old  family  shall  once  more  ring  with  the 
merriment  of  Russian  hospitality. 

With  laughing  eyes  she  promises  Maritza  a  visit 
at  the  ancestral  home  when  the  sorrows  depart. 

"  Your  home  is  far  away  at  Tiflis.  When  you 
are  married,  use  mine  as  your  own  !  I  will  make 
Paul  take  me  to  see  you, — to  your  lovely  Caucasus 
— your  land  of  roses." 

Princess  Orbelian  longs  as  ardently  as  Maritza 
for  the  return  of  the  Emperor.  He  brings  Ahmed 
to  the  fair  Georgian ! 


2QO  PRINCE   SCHAMYL  S   WOOING. 

For  the  magic  permission  may  then  soon  be  ob 
tained  for  her  own  wedding.  Two  lovely  suppli 
ants  wait  for  the  Czar. 

The  Lazareffs,  Paul,  herself,  and  all  their  power 
ful  circle  may  not  be  gainsaid  in  asking  the  maiden 
hand  of  the  last  of  the  Orbelians. 

The  two  girls  in  these  hours  of  confidence  run 
over  their  strange  family  histories. 

"  I  never  knew  my  mother.  She  died  when  I  was 
very  young,"  is  the  whole  of  Princess  Orbelian's 
memories.  "  My  father  was  killed  in  the  Caucasus 
wars.  My  lonely  life  has  been  spent  in  the  institute, 
or  with  the  families  of  my  official  tutors. 

"  When  I  come  into  my  estate  my  mother's  relics 
will  pass  into  my  possession.  Her  picture  tells  me 
she  was  very  beautiful.  Those  who  knew  her  say 
her  heart  was  noble  and  unselfish." 

St.  Petersburg  holds  no  happier  hearts  than  the 
two  lovely  fiancees  when  the  grand  news  of  peace 
throws  every  door  open  in  rejoicing. 

A  hundred  guns  fired  on  every  square,  a  general 
illumination,  a  grand  gala  performance  at  every 
theatre,  scores  of  splendid  fetes  make  the  city  by 
the  Neva  a  scene  of  mad  rejoicing. 

The  Emperor  is  coming  !  The  army  is  coming  ! 
The  court  is  coming  !  All  laurel  crowned  ! 

Silent,  upturned  faces  on  the  battle  shambles  of 
Turkey  appeal  no  more  to  an  inscrutable  God. 
Pale  lips  murmuring,  "  How  long,  O  Lord,  how 
long! "  are  forgotten  in  the  joy  of  to-day. 

Joy  reigns  in  the  palaces  of  the  Winter  King. 

Madame  Lazareff  finds  her  bevy  of  birds  of 
paradise  wildly  excited. 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  291 

Vera  Orbelian  chatters,  "  The  Emperor  is  com 
ing."  Maritza  de  Deshkalin  hides  a  telegram  whose 
every  word  burns  in  her  heart.  The  two  nymphs 
of  honor  are  vaguely  happy  to  see  their  friends 
caught  in  the  mighty  net  of  love,  so  joyous.  Cupid 
in  ambush  may  even  now  be  training  his  feathered 
artillery  on  pretty  Tia  and  sweet  Nina.  Gronow 
the  gallant  is  watching  for  Nina's  return. 

"  Love  is  a  queer  thing — it  comes  and  it  goes." 

"  Incessa  patuit  Dea." 

Great  Venus  swoops  down  to-day,  as  of  old  pale 
Diana  wooed  Endymion  from  starry  heights — a 
touch,  a  kiss — the  fatal  fire  is  in  the  veins  ! 

Venus  victrix  rules  the  stony  hearts  of  men,  the 
wayward  impulse  of  woman. 

The  opera  of  to-night  will  be  the  only  gala  per 
formance  since  the  declaration  of  war. 

Madame  Lazareff  is  surrounded  by  a  happy  circle. 
Why  not  Major  Paul  Platoff  as  escort  ?  Why  not, 
indeed?  His  handsome  face  will  represent  General 
Lazareff  and  the  absent  Ahmed. 

Before  the  evening  falls  old  Abdallah  spends  an 
hour  with  Madame  la  Generate.  He  is  happy.  The 
jeweller  of  Goomri  has  settled  his  accounts  with  the 
foreign  office.  Secret  service  vouchers  are  not 
asked  for.  Abdallah  makes  no  mistake  in  his  reck 
oning.  He  would  now  offer  to  Princess  Maritza 
a  token  of  the  devotion  of  the  absent. 

Shawled  and  turbaned,  the  aged  Moslem  gravely 
eyes  the  dream  of  beauty  which  is  the  living 
picture,  Princess  Maritza.  For  she  has  drunk  of 
the  honey  dew  of  paradise.  Her  lover  is  coming ! 

In  their  fleecy  cotton-wool  wrappings,  Abdallah 


292  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

extends  to  Maritza  a  necklace  of  strands  of  the 
silver  pearls  of  Ormuz,  which  makes  the  young  patri 
cian  clasp  her  white  hands  in  womanish  delight. 

"I  have  telegrams  from  the  Prince  Schamyl.  He 
asked  me  to  present,  in  his  name,  these  pearls  to 
the  Lady  Maritza.  May  Allah  bless  you  !  I  shall 
see  the  day-star  in  the  great  music  house  of  the 
Franks  to-night. 

"  The  pearls  are  royal  and  fitly  bestowed."  With 
bending  salaams,  the  jeweller  disappears. 

His  august  brow  is  graver  than  ever,  for  in  secret 
he  watches  for  the  blow  which  Ghazee  may  deliver ! 
The  traitor  is  as  deadly  as  the  fell  cobra! 

"  Praise  be  to  Allah  !  Royal  Schamyl  will  soon 
be  here,  and  my  long  vigil  will  be  at  an  end." 

Abdallah  seeks  his  coffee-house  and  betakes  him 
self  to  mocha  and  a  narghileh.  He  muses  upon  the 
store  of  golden  imperials  he  hoards  for  himself  and 
Hassan  Bey — the  Judas  of  Kars  ! 

When  the  carriages  sweep  up  to  the  grand  en 
trance  of  the  opera,  Abdallah,  in  a  modest  coupe, 
follows  hard  upon  the  two  stately  "  glass  fronts  " 
of  the  Lazareff  party. 

They  are  late,  for  four  ladies,  each  late  a  quarter 
of  an  hour,  retard  the  appearance  of  a  party. 

Women  are  unexplained  devourers  of  time ! 
Socially  desirous  of  being  late,  astronomically  they 
are  even  more  so  than  the  code  of  "  Noblesse 
oblige  "  demands. 

Abdallah  has  arrayed  himself  in  flowing  raiment 
of  price.  His  swelling  port  is  the  admiration  of  the 
few  loungers  in  the  foyer.  The  opera  is  on. 

The  mimic  woes  of  the  soprano  heroine  are  thrill- 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  293 

ing  the  hearts  of  a  vast  audience  ;  yet  in  the  circu 
lar  rows  of  boxes  many  are  absent. 

Dreamy,  weird  music  floats  upon  old  Abdallah's 
ears  as  he  follows  the  party  to  their  two  loges. 
Paul  Platoff,  in  the  dashing  uniform  of  the  horse 
artillery,  is  handsome  enough  to  satisfy  even  the 
exacting  Vera  Orbelian.  Madame  Lazareff,  a  stately 
swan,  glides  along  with  her  beauteous  cygnets. 

"  Bismillah  !  But  the  Prankish  women  are  fair  !  " 
Abdallah  murmurs,  as  he  gazes  upon  the  lovely 
girls. 

"  Yet,  beard  of  the  Prophet,  they  are  bold  unbe 
lievers  ! 

For  Abdallah  likes  not  the  unveiled  faces  of  these 
glowing  graces.  His  private  delectations  of  the 
harem  give  him  monopolistic  ideas  as  to  pleasing 
one  alone. 

Sultana,  favorite,  or  meek  slave,  in  his  good  old- 
fashioned  conservatism  he  holds  that  these  tender 
eyes  should  shine  alone  on  the  master. 

It  is  his  fortune  to  draw  the  admiring  comment 
of  envious  ladies  who  watch  the  sheen  of  his  costly 
jewels  in  the  great  box  where  he  sits  alone. 

But  his  mind  is  far  away.  He  has  closely  fol 
lowed  every  movement  of  Maritza  since  her  arrival. 
A  letter  in  Arabic,  crumpled  in  his  hand,  recounts 
to  him  the  mad  vagaries  of  Ghazee.  The  wild 
Kurdish  princess,  her  scoundrel  father,  and  old  Is 
mail,  are  holding  high  revel  with  Ghazee  Schamyl 
in  the  distant  castle  where  Ghazee  has  taken  his 
Kurdish  bride. 

Gallant  Mehemet  Pacha,  marching  out  of  Erze- 
roum  with  his  army,  forgets  not  to  telegraph  to 


294  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

Lazareff  at  Kars,  to  Ignatief  on  the  Golden  Horn, 
and  to  Abdallah  at  Petersburg,  the  single  word, 
"  Beware  !  " 

For  all  the  world  knows  now  that  the  Russian 
court  will  at  once  return  to  the  Neva. 

Mehemet's  brief  letter  tells  him  that  Ghazee  has 
sworn  upon  the  blood  of  the  Prophet  (the  incarna 
tion  of  the  lovely  red  rose  of  Gulistan),  that  Maritza 
shall  never  be  Schamyl's  bride. 

"  Mashallah  !  There  are  lands  of  the  Franks  far 
beyond  the  sea.  Prince  Ahmed  might  bear  his  bride 
there,  till  the  wild  boar  be  brought  to  bay  at  last. 

"  He  comes  soon.  In  a  Moslem  harem  she  were 
safe.  These  Frankish  homes  are  open  alike  to 
friend  and  stranger.  It  is  a  foolish  custom." 

Abdallah  muses,  as  the  sweet  notes  of  the  opera 
float,  in  golden  ripples,  around  the  splendid  hall. 

There  is  rustling  of  plumage  and  fluttering  of 
draperies  in  the  splendid  loges.  There  Abdallah's 
reprehensible  beauties  attract  the  eyes  of  the  gilded 
Russian  youth  by  those  charms  he  fain  would  veil 
from  a  Christian  world.  The  Lazareff  loge  is  a 
treasury  of  loveliness. 

There  are  several  cavaliers  of  high  renown  already 
wending  toward  the  boxes.  Madame  Lazareff  is  a 
watchful  keeper  of  these  jewels.  The  curtain  is 
down. 

Before  this  swarm  of  butterflies  can  settle  around 
the  young  divjnities,  there  is  a  tap  at  the  box  door. 

The  box-keeper,  with  truly  Russian  servility, 
bows,  extends  a  fan  and  handkerchief.  From  the 
darkened  corridor  a  silken  voice  politely  explains : 

"  Mademoiselle  has  lost  these  little  articles?" 


PRINCE   SCHAMYL  S  WOOING.  295 

Before  the  grateful  Maritza  can  fully  express  her 
thanks  the  polite  unknown  disappears  with  a  formal 
bow. 

The  entrance  to  the  two  loges  is  crowded  with 
the  elite  of  young  Russia — friends,  devotees  of  the 
houses  and  fortunes  of  the  Lazareffs,  the  Orbelians. 
There  are  others  drawn  by  the  radiant  splendor 
shining  in  Maritza's  eyes. 

The  passionate  music  stealing  into  her  heart  of 
hearts  has  but  one  voice  :  "  He  is  coming  !  He 
comes  !  " 

Her  pretty  toy,  that  most  dangerous  bit  of 
woman's  artillery — the  fan — with  its  attached  lace 
kerchief,  must  have  fallen  in  the  corridor.  Or  did 
she  leave  it  in  the  carriage  ?  A  sudden  thought — 
Ahmed's  pearls  !  Yes,  they  are  there  !  Their  price 
less  circles  cling  to  her  lovely  neck.  As  she  steals 
a  glance  at  herself  in  the  mirror  of  the  loge,  Paul 
Platoff  leans  toward  her.  An  attendant  who  hands 
him  an  envelope  stands  in  the  door. 

Laughingly  he  whispers : 

"  Princess,  your  despatch  is  at  home.  Mine  has 
followed  me  here." 

His  eyes  challenge  her  merrily,  as  he  hands  her 
the  little  paper  strip. 

"  Coming.     Arrive  to-morrow  night. 

"  SCHAMYL." 

With  one  half-uttered  joyous  exclamation,  the 
lovely  waiting  one  leans  back  in  her  fauteuil.  She 
presses  her  kerchief  to  her  truant  lips,  whose  half- 
spoken  utterance  of  joy  causes  Madame  Lazareff  to 
gaze  in  wonder. 

An  instant  later  she  is  lying  prone  and  lifeless  on 


296  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

the  floor  of  the  loge,  her  hand  still  clasping  her 
handkerchief  !  There  is  a  panic  ! 

Platoff  is  on  his  knees  beside  her.  The  eyes  of 
Madame  Lazareff  are  frozen  in  fixed  terror. 

For  the  shimmering  pearls  upon  Maritza's  neck 
are  not  as  white  as  the  pale  cheeks. 

Her  eyelids  tremble  ;  there  is  a  light  foam  at  her 
lips. 

u  The  heart,"  some  one  whispers  in  a  hushed  voice. 

"  Is  it  death— the  sudden  blow  of  joy  ?  "  Platcffs 
brain  boils  with  the  surging  blood. 

Her  hands  are  turning  blue.  She  breathes  not. 
Her  heart  is  still. 

Before  the  gentlemen  can  bear  the  prostrate 
girl  into  the  corridor,  Abdallah  the  Moslem  is  by 
the  side  of  the  dying,  or  the  dead. 

His  keen  eye  notes  the  handkerchief  clinched  in 
the  blue-shaded  hand. 

While  several  volunteers  aid  the  distracted  ladies, 
Abdallah  grasps  Platoff  by  the  arm. 

His  skinny  fingers  almost  meet  in  Platoff's 
muscles. 

"  Bear  her  in  an  inner  room  at  once,  quick  !  Her 
life  is  of  a  few  moments.  It  is"  (he  tears  off  half 
of  the  pretty  lace  from  the  clinched  and  stiffened 
hands)— "  it  is  the  deadly  'Tchina.'  " 

Platoff  almost  screams,  "  Poison  !  " 

The  curse  of  Ghazee  Schamyl  has  fallen  at  last 
upon  the  defenceless  head  of  the  lovely  Rose  of 
Georgia. 

Maritza  lies  extended  on  a  couch  in  an  inner 
room  of  the  foyer.  The  blue  shade  settles  deeper 
on  her  face,  the  foam  thickens  on  her  lips.  Vera 


PRINCE   SCHAMYL  S   WOOING.  297 

Crbclian    alone    is  by   her  side,    with   Platoff    and 
Abdallah. 

The  frantic  girls  are  wailing  with  Madame 
Lazareff  in  a  corner. 

"  A  Prankish  leech!  Quick  for  your  life  !  "  Ab- 
dailah  sharply  calls. 

As  a  leading  court  physician  presses  his  way 
into  the  room,  Abdallah  solemnly  says : 

"  Now,  with  Allah's  blessing,  bleed  her  at  once 
and  strongly."  In  a  moment  the  satin  dress  sleeve 
is  ripped  up — the  corsage  cut.  The  polished 
argent  of  her  stainless,  lifeless  bosom  is  bare. 

No  life,  not  a  flutter.     The  blood  will  not  flow. 

Solemnly  Abdallah  draws  forth  a  vial  of  cut  and 
twisted  Turkish  glass. 

u  I  appeal  to  the  Holy  Prophet.  I  know  the 
Tchina  poison.  If  the  blood  flows  her  life  is  saved. 
Now,  force  gently  open  her  mouth  ! 

"There!" 

A  half  of  the  vial's  contents  in  a  crystal  tumbler 
of  water,  in  equal  share,  is  poured  down  the  girl's 
throat. 

In  the  corner  the  sobs  of  the  wailing  ladies  alone 
are  heard.  Silence  surrounds  the  lovely  victim. 
The  blood  drops  slowly — a  little  drop  at  first,  then 
larger  drops,  at  last  a  little  stream  from  the 
bandaged  marble  arm. 

The  Russian  physician  stares  at  the  old  man  : 
"  By  what  right  do  you  take  this  risk?" 

Abdallah  simply  says  : 

"  I  was  a  leech  in  the  Sultan's  harem  once.  I  know 
the  Kurdish  '  Tchina.'  No  Prankish  skill  will  aid — 
only  this."  He  shows  the  half-emptied  bottle.  - 


298  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

Platoff  is  kneeling  by  the  girl  and  chafing  her 
hands.  The  shade  is  lighter  on  her  face. 

The  Russian  doctor's  hand  is  on  the  silent  heart. 

The  trickling  blood  flows  more  easily.  The  blue 
shade  leaves  the  hands  perceptibly. 

"  Hakim,"  says  Abdallah,  solemnly,  "  if  her 
heart  beats  a  few  moments,  the  second  half  of  this 
vial  will  save  her  life.  Wait !  " 

The  throng  are  silent  now.  All  eyes  are  fixed 
on  the  veteran  Russian  surgeon. 

Before  his  lips  can  utter  the  word,  his  smile  tells 
the  story. 

The  woman's  fluttering  heart  beats  faintly. 

"  Thank  God  !  "  cries  the  doctor. 

Abdallah,  the  good  angel,  gravely  notes  the  flow 
of  blood.  The  trembling  eyelid  begins  to  waver 
more  strongly.  In  five  minutes  there  is  a  move 
ment  of  the  breast — the  current  of  life,  faint  but 
regular.  She  breathes  once  more  ! 

"  Now  bind  the  arm,  Hakim,"  gravely  directs 
Abdallah.  It  is  quickly  done. 

"  Aid  me  to  give  her  the  rest  of  this  liquid  with 
out  violence.  Let  all  be  silent." 

The  girl  begins  to  moan  when  the  second  por 
tion  is  taken. 

A  dozen  trusty  agents  of  police  are  flying  over 
St.  Petersburg  in  search  of  the  stranger  whose  devil 
work  lies  before  them.  The  opera  drones  along. 

Carried  to  a  carriage,  the  suffering  girl  is  swiftly 
conveyed  to  the  darkened  home  of  the  LazarefTs. 
Quiet  reigns  around  the  opera,  where  the  police  are 
swarming!  A  hundred  secret  agents  search  in  vain 
for  the  poisoner. 


PRINCE   SCHAMYL  S   WOOING.  299 

Surgeons  and  physicians,  in  levee,  examine  the 
mysterious  poison's  work.  Among  them,  lifted 
eyebrows  and  quiet  sneers  tell  the  story  of  doubting 
Thomas. 

Abdallah  gravely  cuts  a  fragment  of  the  kerchief 
he  has  carefully  secured,  and  thrusts  it  in  a  candle 
flame.  It  lies  limp  and  white,  unburned. 

"  The  deadliest  curse  of  Kurdistan — the  Tchina  ! 
When  touched  by  moisture  it  acts  at  once  !  " 

"  Abdallah,  whence  comes  it  ?  "  Platoff  queries. 

"  From  the  deepest  devil-broth  of  dark  Eblis  !  " 
Abdallah  says  to  all.  "  Leave  now  the  maiden.  She 
must  rest.  She  must  be  quiet."  Platoff  selects  the 
two  or  three  physicians  whom  Abdallah  indicates. 

"  Let  there  be  a  double  guard  around  this  house," 
he  orders  of  Platoff. 

"I  have  none  of  the  saving  potion  left.  Only  in 
Constantinople  can  it  be  gotten.  Its  weight  in  ten 
times  purest  diamonds  would  not  buy  it. 

"  I  shall  stay  here.  I  must  watch  the  maiden  for 
several  days." 

Madame  Lazareff  and  Vera  Orbelian  carry  out 
the  wishes  of  Abdallah.  His  whispered  conferences 
with  Dr.  Ostrokoff  make  the  latter  cry,  u  Wonder 
ful  !  wonderful  !  " 

Platoff  obeys  Abdallah's  directions  to  quiet  the 
house.  A  pile  of  cushions  is  thrown  down  in  the 
corridor  in  front  of  Maritza's  door. 

"  Here  I  will  watch,"  he  simply  says.  "  Have 
some  assistants  watch  the  night  there,"  pointing  to 
the  lower  end  of  the  hall.  "  See  that  they  sleep 
not.  The  curse  of  Ghazee  Schamyl  never  sleeps !  " 

"  I  shall  be  here,"  Platoff  indicates.    A  room  facing 


300  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

the  only  entrance  to  Maritza's  door  awaits  him.  In 
her  apartment  two  Sisters  of  Charity,  noblest  of 
God's  daughters,  are  on  duty. 

The  lonely  house  is  silent.  The  hour  wears  late. 
Abdallah  stands  by  Maritza's  bedside.  Platoff's 
eager  eyes  are  watching  her  ashen  face.  She  moans. 
Her  arms  pain  her  sorely.  Deeply  the  surgeon's 
knife  has  sought  the  well-springs  of  her  pure  blood. 

Her  eyes  are  half  open.  An  awful  idea  strikes 
PlatofL  The  women  are  strange  to  her.  But  Abdal 
lah  and  himself  are  not !  There  is  no  flicker  of  recog 
nition.  Her  eyes  have  the  stare  of  a  child.  Great 
God !  she  is  following  the  flashing  of  the  foolish  tin 
sel  on  his  uniform  ! 

He  grasps  Abdallah.  He  menaces  him !  She 
makes  no  sign. 

"  Tell  me,  tell  me  all  ! "  PlatofT  hoarsely  whispers. 
"  Is  there  anything  wrong  ?  " 

"  May  the  angel  of  Allah  spread  his  wings  over  the 
day-star!  And  the  Holy  Prophet  make  smooth  the 
path  of  the  lion  of  the  Caucasus ! 

"  He  comes  to-morrow  night  ?  " 

Platoff's  tears  are  blinding  him  as  he  bows  his 
head  in  speechless  woe. 

"  She  may  never  speak  or  see  him  any  more," 
sadly  murmurs  Abdallah.  He  leads  Platoff  from 
the  room.  "  Her  mind  is  vacant.  Be  it  yours  to 
meet  this  noble  youth,  and  make  this  burden  known 
to  him.  The  future  is  with  Allah." 

The  old  Turk's  uplifted  ringer  implores  the  mercy 
of  God.  He  sadly  turns  away,  for  Platoff  throws 
himself  on  his  couch  in  an  agony.  Madness '. 
Maritza  demented  !  An  awful  blow! 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  301 

And,  happy-hearted,  the  lovelight  burning  in  the 
fiery  eyes  which  faced  the  mad  midnight  battle  in 
the  Kanly  fort  to  save  her,  Ahmed  Schamyl  is  racing 
along  toward  the  Neva. 

"  I  shall  see  her  to-morrow.  I  shall  hear  her  say, 
'  Ahmed,  my  own  !  mine  only ! ' "  he  whispers  to 
himself. 

God's  infinite  mercy  lifts  not  the  veil  too  soon 
which  brings  forth  the  manifold  sorrows  of  the  fate- 
stricken  children  of  Eve. 


CHAPTER    XIV. 

HOME   AGAIN. — IN    THE    ORBELIAN    PALACE. — FIND 
ING   A   SISTER. — THE   OPENING   OF   THE   NEVA. 

PAUL  PLATOFF'S  dreams  in  the  LazarefT  house  are 
haunted  by  a  suffering  lily  face.  A  sweet  girl's 
vacant  eyes  roving  over  his  person  in  childlike  curi 
osity  ! 

As  he  awakes  to  the  saddest  day  of  his  life,  his 
first  thought  is  Dr.  Abdallah's  injunction,  "  You 
alone  must  tell  Schamyl." 

He  rubs  his  eyes.     It  is,  alas!  not  a  dream. 

The  attendants  in  the  halls  come  at  his  signal. 
Abdallah  is  in  the  sick-room.  In  a  half-hour  he 
noiselessly  emerges. 

Platoff's  eyes  ask  the  question. 

"  Better,  my  son  !  Stronger,  but  the  spirit  is  still 
absent !  " 

Led  by  Abdallah,  he  enters  the  princely  maiden's 
room. 


3O2  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

There,  pale  and  worn,  yet  breathing  regularly,  the 
Rose  of  Tiflis  lies.  No  hopeful  sign  !  The  fearful 
blow  of  the  poison  upon  the  nerve  centres  has  par 
alyzed  her  mind. 

In  the  morning-room  Madame  Lazareff  and  the 
anxious  girls  wait  for  the  report. 

Abdallah  forbids  any  one  to  enter,  save  the  phy 
sician,  the  nurses,  and  herself.  Only  time,  and  gath 
ering  native  nerve  force,  can  obliterate  the  fearful 
shock  to  the  mind. 

A  double-fanged  serpent  !  If  it  kills  not,  the  golden 
cord  of  the  mind  may  snap  forever.  Only  the  old 
Aztec  secrets  of  the  Loco  poison,  guarded  by  fanatics 
from  the  Rio  Grande  to  the  dark  wilds  of  Honduras, 
have  a  formula  of  such  a  dreaded  poison  as  the  Asiatic 
"  Tchina."  Poor  widowed  Empress  Carlotta,  after 
twenty  years,  bears  the  awful  cross  of  a  ruined  intel 
lect.  Her  deadly  foe,  Juarez  (poisoned  in  his  bath), 
and  other  wrecked  minds  and  lives,  are  ghastly 
reminders  of  the  work  of  the  Aztec  "  Loco  "  poi 
sons.  Where  the  children  of  the  Incas  sometimes 
fail,  the  conspirators  of  the  harem  always  succeed. 
To  close  the  lips,  to  shatter  the  mind,  to  poison  with 
a  rose  in  one  fragrant  death-stroke,  to  reduce  to 
mania  or  idiocy — is  their  work.  They  delight  to 
bring  on  the  fatal  end  under  sudden  excitement  or 
after  years  of  lingering  pain.  They  can  snuff  out 
the  mental  candle  like  lightning.  These  are  the 
gloomy  secrets  of  the  seraglio  poisoners. 

The  Orient,  mother  of  arts,  languages,  and  king 
doms,  has  the  fatal  mist  of  conspiracy  and  concealed 
crime  floating  ever  through  its  fairest  bowers 

Platoff  mournfully  orders  his  sleigh.     To  find  the 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  303 

news  of  the  day  ;  to  learn  if  the  miscreant  has 
been  caught ;  to  locate  the  imperial  train,  and  to 
meet  Schamyl — this  is  his  sad  duty  ! 

Abdallah  calms  the  heart-broken  women  mourn 
ers.  The  extremest  quiet  must  be  the  price  of 
recovery,  even  if  long  delayed. 

Platoff,  in  a  boudoir,  takes  leave  of  the  Princess 
Orbelian.  Her  noble  soul  goes  out  to  the  suffering 
sister  of  her  heart. 

"  Paul,"  she  says,  with  a  rare  smile  lighting  up 
her  tears,  "  my  palace,  my  country  home,  is  the 
place  !  We  will  surround  Maritza  with  tenderestlove 
and  care.  I  will  offer  it  to  General  Lazareff  when 
he  comes.  You  know  I  enter  now  into  my  woman 
hood." 

With  a  fervent  kiss,  Platoff  dashes  away  to  the 
heart  of  the  city.  He  learns  no  news. 

The  police  have  been  baffled.  The  whole  opera 
thought  the  lady  had  only  fainted.  There  is  no  social 
excitement.  Tragedies  are  frequent  in  Petersburg. 

The  grim  colonel  in  charge  of  the  city  police  sta 
tion  is  mystified.  "Major  Platoff,"  he  says,  "  this 
devil  must  have  slipped  into  the  bazaars !  In  Ori 
ental  garb  it  would  take  years  to  find  him.  I  fear 
he  will  escape  us !  "  He  grinds  his  teeth  in  rage. 

It  is  too  true  !  There  are  sixty  thousand  scat 
tered  Orientals  in  St.  Petersburg. 

Sorrowing,  yet  not  surprised,  Paul  drives  through 
the  streets.  Everywhere  decorations  and  prepara 
tions  for  the  imperial  train.  The  Emperor  may  go 
to  Gatschina.  But  the  gala  train  of  the  imperial 
staff,  the  generals,  princes,  and  great  court  officers, 
will  arrive  in  the  evening. 


304  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

After  conference  with  the  Minister  of  Interior, 
Paul  is  given  a  special  engine  to  meet  the  train. 

The  roads  of  Russia  are  closed  to  travel  when  the 
great  Czar  is  en 'route. 

With  an  hour  spent  in  preparation,  Platoff  is  in 
readiness. 

Driving  back  to  report  to  the  circle  at  the  Laza- 
reffs,  Paul  learns  the  state  of  Maritza  is  the  same. 
Away  on  the  rail  he  speeds  to  prepare  Prince 
Ahmed  for  this  sad  home-coming.  It  is  too  cruel ! 

No  vigilance  of  the  police  is  spared.  The  Laza- 
reff  house  is  searched  in  every  nook.  A  cordon  of 
the  Third  Section  watches  its  every  approach. 

Dr.  Abdallah,  calmly  smoking  on  his  divan  cush 
ions  at  the  end  of  the  corridor,  performs  his  daily 
ablutions.  Facing  the  east,  he  prays  in  his  sol 
emn  fashion  for  the  lovely  Frankish  idol  of  his 
friend's  heart.  Nothing  now  surprises  the  old  Mos 
lem.  His  life  has  been  spent  in  scenes  of  deadly 
conspiracy,  of  black  intrigue  and  frenzied  revenge. 

Two  hours'  travel  places  Platoff's  train  on  a  siding 
awaiting  the  imperial  party.  The  official  wire  has 
flashed  a  message  to  Schamyl. 

"  Waiting  you  here — special  train.     Important  news  for  you." 

Far  away,  with  shrieking  whistles,  the  gala  train 
approaches.  Petersburg,  wild  with  delight,  awaits 
its  absent  notables. 

No  heart  bounds  more  gayly  than  Schamyl's;  yet, 
when  the  despatch  is  handed  him,  he  has  once  more 
a  vision  of  a  lovely  woman,  lifeless,  the  glistening 
pearls  shining  on  her  fair  neck,  and  bending  over  her 
always  that  man.  He  cannot  even  now  see  the  face. 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  305 

With  a  roar  and  a  shriek  the  great  train  draws 
up.  One  division  proceeds  to  Gatschina.  The 
other  will  go  through  to  allow  the  citizens  a  sight 
of  heroes  laurelled  in  victory. 

Platoff,  standing  on  the  platform,  gazes  at  the 
train.  In  an  instant,  Schamyl,  his  eyes  blazing  like 
fire,  clasps  him  in  his  arms. 

"  Maritza  !  "    he  hoarsely  says. 

"  Is  in  St.  Petersburg,"  Platoff  answers,  with 
averted  face. 

"  She  -is  ill — she  is  dead!"  Ahmed's  voice  rises 
almost  to  a  shriek. 

"  She  is  very  ill,  Schamyl,"  Paul  answers.  "Come 
into  my  train.  I  must  talk  to  you,  alone." 

While  the  imperial  convoy  dashes  away  to  Gatsch 
ina,  the  official  division  moves  steadily  on  toward 
Petersburg.  Ahmed  sits  in  the  car  with  Platoff,  his 
head  in  his  hands. 

Strong  man  as  he  is,  his  frame  is  shaken  with  the 
fury  of  his  rage.  His  ardent  soul  is  torn  with  his 
frantic  sorrow.  He  knows  the  story  now  ! 

To  such  a  home-coming  !  To  see  the  exquisite 
mind  overthrown,  to  find  her  lovely  face  only  a 
waxen  blank,  struck  in  her  innocence  by  the  coward 
fiend  Ghazee  !  To  be  powerless  to  avert,  to  guard, 
to  save,  that  one  darling  head  !  This  is  the  crown 
of  thorns — a  life's  misery  ! 

He  raises  desperate  eyes  to  his  friend.  Paul  im 
plores  him  to  be  master  of  himself.  It  is  a  blot 
ting  out  of  all  the  tender  past — a  shattering  of  the 
golden  future  ! 

All  the  scenes  of  war  fade  away.  There  is  but 
one  picture  in  their  minds.  That  suffering  woman's 

20 


306  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

frozen  smile  may  never  change  till  another  life  shall 
be  given  her ! 

"  Vengeance  !  "  Ahmed  hisses.  "  To  the  end  of 
the  world  !  " 

Paul  lays  a  hand  on  his  arm.  "  Leave  that  to 
God  alone,  Schamyl,"  he  solemnly  says. 

Moodily  gazing  from  the  windows,  with  eager 
glance  Ahmed  eyes  the  spires  of  Petersburg. 

Descending  in  the  station,  where  thousands  fran 
tically  welcome  the  heroes  of  the  hour,  the  two 
friends  thread  the  joyous  crowd. 

"  Take  me  to  her  at  once  !  "  Schamyl  cries. 

On  through  the  illuminated  streets  the  sleigh 
dashes. 

Platoff  precedes  Schamyl  into  the  Lazareff  man 
sion. 

While  Ahmed  paces  the  salon  like  a  tiger,  Platoff 
returns  with  Abdallah. 

The  ladies  have  not  the  courage  to  gaze  yet  on 
the  princely  lover  in  his  despair. 

"  Come,"  says  Abdallah,  simply.  At  the  thresh 
old  of  the  sick  chamber  the  old  man  places  his 
withered  finger  on  his  lip. 

Schamyl  bows. 

Platoff,  on  tiptoe,  sees  the  now  familiar  sight. 
That  lovely  pallid  face,  the  wandering  hands,  the 
earnest,  sad-eyed  Sisters  of  Charity  with  tender 
woman  hearts  alive  to  human  sorrows !  On  his 
knees  beside  the  woman  he  has  sought  through  fire 
and  flame,  the  victor  Prince  of  the  Caucasus! 

There  is  silence.  Her  eyes  slowly  meet  his.  They 
rove  over  his  face,  unchanged.  She  makes  no  sign. 
Ah,  yes  !  a  pleased  expression,  as  of  a  spoiled  in- 


PRINCE   SCHAMYL  S   WOOING.  307 

fant.  One  lovely  arm  is  extended  toward  him.  He 
leans  toward  her.  She  picks  at  the  great  white 
cross  upon  his  breast. 

"  Speak  to  her,  Prince,"  Abdallah  softly  whispers. 

"  Maritza,  my  darling  !  My  own  beloved  !  "  His 
voice  trembles.  Its  accent  is  as  sad  as  the  wind 
sweeping  over  the  tomb  of  the  best  beloved. 

Steadily  her  splendid  eyes  are  fixed  upon  the 
white  cross  of  valor.  She  will  have  it — that  bauble 
for  which  his  life  has  been  risked  a  hundred  times. 

Detaching  it,  he  places  it  in  her  hand. 

With  a  satisfied  smile  she  sinks  back  on  her  pil 
low. 

But  she  cannot  hear  the  call  of  love  from  his 
heart  of  hearts. 

He  is  on  his  knees  and  sobbing  madly.  "  Come  !  " 
Abdallah  touches  him  on  the  shoulder. 

Pressing  loyal  lips  on  her  brow,  the  princely  Cir 
cassian  lover  staggers  from  the  room. 

In  the  next  half-hour  he  knows  how  this  sorrow 
has  stricken  the  gentle  hearts  around  her. 

Abdallah — while  Schamyl,  lowly  speaking,  talks 
with  Princess  Orbelian,  his  eyes  filled  with  a  vague 
wonder— draws  Platoff  from  the  room. 

"  Watch  him  !  Every  moment,  my  son  !  Leave 
him  not.  There  is  a  madness  which  kills  not  others, 
but  the  madman  alone.  Force  him  away.  Make 
him  talk  of  other  things — the  war,  his  own  life.  But 
this — this  will  kill  him  if  he  yields  to  his  mood." 

The  night  of  general  rejoicing  sees  Schamyl  a 
guest  at  Platoff's  rooms,  and  watched  in  his  slum 
bers  by  faithful  friends. 

On  the  morrow  Platoff  resolutely  occupies  Scha- 


308  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

myl's  attention.  To  drive  to  the  Ministry  of  War 
and  obtain  a  leave  ;  to  notify  General  Lazareff, 
who  cannot  return  for  a  month  ;  to  inform  Count 
Ignatief  by  telegraph  ;  to  conduct  the  court  physi 
cian  to  the  bed  of  the  invalid  for  a  conference — all 
this  is  useful  and  distracting  work. 

With  infinite  patience  Abdallah  directs  the  treat 
ment  of  the  invalid.  The  Russian  physicians  mar 
vel  at  the  old  Hakim.  Before  the  evening  the  ver 
dict  of  a  council  is  announced — rest,  quiet,  and 
change  of  scene. 

Madame  Lazareff  accepts  the  offer  of  the  Princess 
Orbelian.  In  a  few  days  Maritza  is  in  the  long 
silent  home  of  the  old  family. 

Schamyl,  with  a  faithful  detachment  of  soldiers,  as 
well  as  police,  finds  his  employment  in  insuring  the 
safety  of  the  gentle  invalid. 

The  Emperor's  aide-de-camp,  sent  to  examine  and 
report,  bears  to  Prince  Schamyl  the  imperial  man 
date  to  present  himself  at  court,  in  due  season,  for 
special  honors  and  rewards. 

Ahmed's  mind  has  recovered  its  balance.  But  a 
settled  gloom  and  sadness  weighs  upon  his  soul. 

The  one  bright  flash  of  love  and  life  in  the  splen 
did  home  of  the  Orbelians,  near  Tsarskoe-Zeloe,  is 
the  young  heiress  of  the  house. 

Platoff  has  received  the  imperial  permission  to 
marry.  It  will  not  be  as  Major,  but  as  Colonel 
Platoff,  whose  officers  of  his  new  regiment  only  wait 
for  happier  days,  to  give  a  rousing  wedding  feast  to 
the  hero  of  Loftscha. 

The  city  on  the  Neva  is  in  wild  triumph. 

The  trees  which  Maritza  watched  begin  to  put 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  309 

forth  their  little  green  shoots.  Alas,  her  light  foot 
wanders  no  more  in  the  "  lover's  tryst "  of  the 
Winter  Palace  gardens !  Attended  by  a  faithful 
nun,  or  leaning  on  the  arm  of  one  of  her  three 
graces,  the  Dame  Blanche  silently  walks  the 
splendid  corridors  of  the  old  Orbelian  home. 
She  speaks  not.  She  notices  the  objects  around 
her  mechanically. 

Ahmed's  guiding  arm  assists  her.  In  the  frank 
abandonment  of  childhood,  she  follows.  She  greets 
not  his  coming.  She  heeds  not  his  going.  There 
is  no  smile  to  answer  his  loving  gaze. 

Seated  by  Vera  Orbelian's  side,  she  plays  with 
the  objects  of  Vera's  daily  examination.  The 
guardians  and  tutors  have  delivered  to  Princess 
Vera  her  mother's  jewels,  personal  mementos  and 
papers. 

Maritza  grows  stronger,  but  Abdallah's  brow  is 
carved  with  deepest  wrinkles.  He  sees  what  others 
cannot  see.  Ahmed's  heart  is  wearing  out  by 
inches.  Hope  not  deferred,  but  gainsaid.  No 
friendly  ray  on  the  gray  horizon  of  these  days ! 

Madame  Lazareff,  preparing  for  the  general's 
return,  is  absent  often. 

Platoff  tries  to  rouse  Schamyl.  Seated  in  the 
library,  they  discuss  the  war.  Its  solid  fruits  are 
now  assured.  Paul,  with  comrade-like  delicacy, 
keeps  his  own  happy  love  in  the  background. 
Yet  he  must  see  that  Schamyl's  eyes  follow  Vera 
Orbelian  with  a  yearning  tenderness.  It  is  because 
of  her  gentle  kindness  to  the  stricken  Princess 
Maritza,  who  sits  and  plays  with  the  old  letters 
Vera  is  reading  for  the  first  time. 


3io  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

The  treaty  of  peace  is  published.  Russia's 
enormous  gains  astonish  the  people — the  whole 
control  of  Asia  Minor ;  the  great  fortresses ; 
Bessarabia  regained;  the  loss  of  1856  made  good  ; 
the  independence  of  Bosnia  and  Herzegovina ; 
Bulgaria's  autonomy  ;  a  huge  war  indemnity  ;  Rou- 
mania,  Servia,  and  Montenegro  freed  ;  the  menac 
ing  Danube  fortresses  evacuated ! 

"Schamyl,"  Platoff  cries,  "we  have  gained  all, 
save  only  the  Dardanelles  and  St.  Sophia. 

"  But  it  will  come  !  "  he  cries,  with  sparkling  eyes. 

"  I  have  done  with  glory  and  its  dreams,"  Scha 
myl  moodily  cries.  "  I'd  give  the  whole  of  Armenia, 
if  I  had  it,  to  hear  that  angel  speak  once  more  to 
me." 

He  cannot  be  roused.  He  wanders  away  to 
lovely  Vera,  whose  tender  eyes  are  often  dim  with  a 
child's  tribute  to  a  loved  mother.  She  is  reading 
her  mother's  heart — old  letters.  He  hears  a  joy 
ful  cry.  With  sparkling  eyes  she  hails  Schamyl. 
Silent  Maritza  wonders  at  the  royal  jewels  she 
fondly  trifles  with.  The  dark-robed  Sister  of  Charity 
gazes  on  the  lovely  pair.  For  Maritza's  glorious 
eyes  mutely  shine  out  in  tender  appeal :  "  Help 
me !  " 

Abdallah  fears  now  the  help  is  not  in  this  world. 

"  Prince  Ahmed  !  "  Vera  cries.  "  Come  here  !  I 
am  a  Circassian,  too  !  "  She  is  holding  a  letter. 

His  brow  lights  up. 

"Explain!     I  beg  you!* 

"  I  have  just  found  this  sealed  letter,  in  which  my 
dear  loved  mother  tells  me  I  was  born  in  the  Circas 
sian  mountains  while  the  army  was  there." 


PRINCE    SCHAMYL  S  WOOING.  311 

Maritza's  wistful  eyes  rove  over  the  eager  faces 
of  Ahmed  and  Vera. 

"  And  your  exact  age  now  ?  "  Schamyl  eagerly 
asks. 

The  wondering  girl  tells  him.  Abruptly,  without 
a  word,  Schamyl  leaves  the  room. 

Returning  with  Platoff,  whose  face  is  blank  with 
amazement,  Schamyl  leads  the  wondering  girl  up  to 
her  mother's  picture.  It  is  smiling  down  in  the 
splendid  boudoir,  which  her  daughter  now  makes 
radiant  with  her  own  sweet  presence. 

"  Vera,"  he  softly  says,  "  is  that  your  mother  ?  " 

The  lady  looks  up  shyly.  Is  he  wandering,  too  ? 
Is  his  mind  unthroned  ? 

"  My  darling  mother,"  she  whispers,  her  hands 
clasped  on  her  breast. 

"  Vera,  she  was  my  mother  also,"  Schamyl  softly 
says,  with  a  tender  smile;  "  and  you,  you  dear  child, 
are  my  own  sister! " 

Her  head  is  buried  in  a  brother's  arms.  Paul 
Platoff  softly  walks  back  to  Maritza,  seated,  toying 
with  the  jewels. 

Beside  the  mother's  tomb  in  the  old  family 
chapel,  brother  and  sister  kneel  together.  The  hal 
lowed  air  seems  full  of  rushing  spirit  wings. 

When  they  unfold  to  Paul  all  the  story,  he  knows 
that  his  bride  and  his  friend  are  both  children  of  the 
great  Schamyl. 

The  seal  of  years  is  lifted  from  the  strange 
history.  Schamyl  knows  now  the  dying  Hassan 
would  have  named  in  his  last  gasp  the  gentle  sister 
whose  smile  is  shed  on  his  darkened  soul  like  moon 
light  on  the  waters. 


312  PRINCE    SCHAMYL S   WOOING. 

As  he  seeks  his  couch,  Vera  whispers  with  her 
good-night :  "  Ahmed,  my  brother,  God's  mercy 
may  save  you  yet  !  Maritza's  happiest  days  may 
come  with  the  roses  budding  nozu  !  " 

Plat  off  and  Schamyl  make  a  pilgrimage  of  two 
days  to  the  city  of  Peter. 

Closeted  with  General  Ignatief,  they  learn  the 
whole  story  of  Princess  Orbelian.  The  brothers 
in  arms  are  soon  to  be  united  by  a  closer  tie.  The 
marriage  wraps  Princess  Maritza  with  a  nearer 
cordon  of  loving  friends. 

Ignatief  accords  the  right  of  Colonel  Platoff  to 
know  the  birth  of  his  wife.  Master  of  the  policy 
of  the  Russian  government,  he  explains  to  the 
young  men  the  long  captivity  of  Princess  Orbelian 
at  Dargo,  the  enforced  marriage  of  the  lovely  host 
age  with  Sultan  Schamyl,  the  Lion  of  Daghes- 
tan  ! 

General  Orbelian's  death,  his  long  absence  on 
service,  the  seven  years'  disappearance  of  the  prin 
cess,  were  matters  incident  to  the  romantic  border 
service  of  Russia. 

The  policy  of  the  great  Czar  in  advancing 
Schamyl's  second  son,  in  surrounding  Vera  Orbe 
lian's  girlhood  with  tenderest  attentions,  was  sug 
gested  by  the  importance  of  the  succession  to  the 
princely  suzerainty  of  Circassia. 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life,  Ahmed  Schamyl 
grasps  the  secret  of  the  Moslem  cunning  of  his  royal 
father. 

Breaking  the  oath  of  his  first  capitulation,  betray 
ing  his  soldier's  honor  pledged  to  General  Fesi,  at 
Tileth  in  1837,  ne  was  later  bound  by  personal  grat- 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  313 

itude  to  the  Czar  for  the  return  of  Jamal-Eddin, 
his  darling  first-born. 

When  the  death  of  Jamal-Eddin  in  the  foreign 
Turkish  service  plunged  him  in  frantic  sorrow,  his 
final  surrender  to  Prince  Baryatinsky  left  him,  at 
last,  helpless  in  the  power  of  the  Czar. 

His  people  scattered,  Circassia  devastated  by  forty 
years  of  war — his  own  career  was  ended. 

From  the  palaces  of  Dargo,  he  descended  in  royal 
state  with  two  new  bonds  tying  his  faith  to  the 
Czar.  His  legitimate  successor,  Ghazee  Schamyl, 
might  die  or  be  the  victim  of  treachery  ! 

"  He  was  a  grand  old  diplomatist,"  Ignatief  en 
thusiastically  cries  to  his  young  listeners. 

"  Desirous  of  wielding  the  sceptre  of  the  Cau 
casus  through  his  sons,  he  remained  quiet  at  Kaluga 
in  Russia  for  nine  years — a  stately  captive  ! 

"  When  he  allowed  Princess  Orbelian  and  her  in 
fant  daughter  to  return  to  Russia  in  exchange  for 
his  first-born,  he  withheld  the  son  of  their  marriage. 

"  You  know,  Prince  Ahmed,  your  education  dif 
fered  from  Ghazee's.  There  were  interviews,  now 
covered  with  the  mantle  of  eternal  silence,  between 
Sultan  Schamyl  and  his  lovely  Russian  wife  during 
his  years  at  Kaluga. 

"  The  fiery  Moslem  must  have  deeply  loved  the 
gentle  woman,  who  drooped  into  the  grave  soon 
after  his  downfall,  for  he  educated  you  as  a  Chris 
tian. 

"  Some  pledge  of  love,  some  last  desire  to  do 
tardy  justice  to  the  beautiful  woman  whom  he 
roughly  wooed  in  her  long  captivity,  must  have  soft 
ened  the  old  rebel's  heart. 


314  PRINCE   SCHAMYL  S   WOOING. 

"  To  Ghazee  alone  he  poured  out  his  political 
plans  of  the  future — his  Jesuitic  schemes  to  replace 
a  Schamyl  on  the  warrior  throne  of  Circassia  ! 

"  You  he  was  content  to  see  in  the  Russian  service, 
knowing  that  from  policy  the  government  would 
advance  you  in  your  career.  He  felt  that  years 
would  bring  your  sister  and  yourself  together.  He 
knew  it  was  your  right  to  be  a  Christian. 

"  The  Orbelian  inheritance  provided  for  her. 
Your  own  wealth  was  set  aside  by  your  father,  with 
our  government's  approval." 

"  Mysterious  and  wonderful  man!"  Ahmed  mur 
murs.  "  Count,  I  cannot  understand  his  last  years." 

Ignatief  resumes. 

"  We  did  not  ourselves  until  the  events  of  the 
last  war.  After  the  death  of  Princess  Orbelian  his 
mystic  moods  returned.  The  dreamer  longed  for 
a  death  in  the  holy  places — a  voyage  to  Mecca  and 
Medina.  It  was  part  policy,  part  devotion. 

"  He  outwitted  the  Czar  in  his  old  age.  He  well 
knew  as  a  mere  rebel  Ghazee  could  never  succeed 
in  regaining  the  Caucasus. 

"He  trained  Ghazee  in  all  his  own  dark  wiles. 
Leaving  him  here  to  penetrate  our  policy,  he  retired 
to  Arabia  and  died  there. 

"  His  master  mind  built  up  at  Constantinople, 
with  the  higher  Ulemas  of  the  Moslem  church,  the 
plan  of  Ghazee's  counter  rebellion.  He  knew  the 
inevitable  Russo-Turkish  war  was  near.  Turkey  was 
to  aid  in  driving  Russia  back  to  the  natural  line  of 
the  Caucasus,  and  Ghazee  was  to  reign  alone. 

u  It  was  for  this  he  sent  him  these  solemn  last 
messages.  He  bound  your  servitor  Hassan  to 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  315 

never  reveal  your  birth  while  living.  Ghazee  hated 
you  as  the  son  of  a  gentle  Russian  who  swayed 
your  royal  father's  mind.  It  was  mere  state  policy 
with  us  to  forbid  public  acknowledgments  of  that 
union.  But  Ghazee  failed  in  exciting  the  wild  en 
thusiasm  of  your  father  among  the  mountaineers. 
Cold,  selfish,  and  brutal,  he  was  not  loved.  He  only 
desired  to  wed  Princess  Maritza  to  strengthen  his 
claims. 

"  Besides,  my  young  friends,  he  failed  to  recog 
nize  the  Russianizing  of  his  native  provinces  in 
tw-enty  years.  The  railway  and  modern  arms  made 
the  renewal  of  a  Circassian  rebellion  wild  folly." 

Prince  Ahmed  sees  clearly  at  last. 

"  A  great  tribute  to  Schamyl's  prophetic  mind  ! 
He  knew  Turkey  could  not  conquer  us,  but  hoped 
that  England  would  actively  aid  with  her  enormous 
fleet.  He  hoped  they  would  hold  the  Black  Sea, 
while  the  Turks,  with  the  Circassian  rebellion,  swept 
away  our  power  in  Asia  Minor." 

"And  Europe?"  Ahmed  asks. 

"  There  again  his  genius  shines.  He  dreamed 
that  Austria  would  be  strong  enough  to  hold  Russia 
off  the  Danube  by  mere  jealousy.  The  rise  of  the 
Prussian  power  cleared  away  the  strongest  active 
enemy  of  Russia  in  the  principalities.  Austria  is 
dead. 

"  These  future  schemes  were  dinned  into  Scha 
myl's  ears  by  the  diplomatic  agents  of  France,  Eng 
land,  and  Austria.  He  was  persuaded  by  his  own 
Turkish  friends.  There  were  continued  offers  of 
aid  to  him,  even  to  the  last." 

"  These  agents  deceived  him,"  Ahmed  murmurs. 


316  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

"  Ah,  my  dear  Prince  !  "  Ignatief  replies  with  a 
smile.  "  Diplomacy  is  only  refined  lying  !  When 
the  game  of  war  opens,  the  strongest  takes  all 
the  prizes.  It  is  a  poor  trade,  modern  diplo 
macy  ! 

"  Look  at  Russia  !  We  never  go  back  !  Forced 
to  be  cunning,  we  win  and  hold  by  the  strong  title 
of  the  sword. 

"  Onward  to  Asia  !  On  to  the  Pacific  !  On  to 
Constantinople  !  On  to  the  Persian  Gulf!  Such  is 
our  natural  path." 

The  count  pauses,  his  roving  black  eyes  watch 
the  eager  listeners. 

"And  yet  England  is  in  our  patJi." 

The  great  count  smiles  as  he  rises  and  directs  the 
traditional  wine  to  be  served. 

"  Both  you  gentlemen  may  live  to  ride  as  generals 
of  division  in  the  death  struggle  for  India  which 
will  be  fought  with  England  on  the  lines  of  the 
Asiatic  border.  We  shall  flatter  and  hold  France 
as  our  ally.  We  will  give  them  a  part  of  the  great 
East." 

"  Communications!  "  both  the  soldiers  cry. 

"  Gentlemen,  General  AnenkofT  is  already  ordered 
to  build  the  railway  from  the  Caspian  shore  to 
Merv,  Tashkend,  and  Samarcand. 

"  Within  a  year  the  railway  from  Poti  and  Batoum 
to  Kutars,  Tiflis,  and  Baku  will  be  in  construction. 

"  We  may  not  live  to  see  it,  but  in  less  than  a 
quarter  of  a  century  the  Russian  military  roads 
will  control  in  one  unbroken  line,  without  change 
of  car,  the  Indian,  Chinese,  and  Siberian  boundaries. 
We  will  gain  territory  on  every  border. 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  317 

"  The  locomotive  will  have  a  clear  path  to  the 
blue  Pacific  at  Vladivostock. 

"  Where  will  our  English  friends  be  then?" 

He  pauses  in  triumph.  The  dictatorship  drifts 
toward  him  now.  A  dangerous  honor! 

With  warm  greetings  the  coming  dictator  dis 
misses  the  two  soldiers. 

"  I  expect  to  hear  of  your  marriage  at  a  very 
early  day,  Colonel  Platoff.  Pray  believe  me,  it 
would  be  the  wisest  step.  The  late  Princess  Orbc- 
lian  arranged  her  papers  before  her  death,  so  that 
her  daughter  would  know,  only  at  the  right  time, 
the  secret  of  her  birth. 

"  Prince  Schamyl,  on  behalf  of  the  Emperor,  I 
am  authorized  to  say  that  should  Colonel  Platoff 
and  his  wife,  or  the  Lazareffs,  wish  to  take  Princess 
Maritza  abroad  for  travel  or  medical  assistance, 
every  official  aid  will  be  freely  given.  Your  presen 
tation  to  the  Emperor  only  awxaits  your  happier 
days." 

Before  the  mid-April  leaves  are  timidly  unfolding 
their  delicate  green  fronds  to  the  warmer  sunlight, 
there  is  a  quiet  wedding  in  the  chapel  of  the  Orbe- 
lians.  Vera  is  given  away  by  General  Lazareffs 
honored  hand  to  Paul  Platoff  in  marriage. 

Madame  Lazareff,  a  few  of  the  knights  of  the 
sword,  and  the  two  lovely  belles  of  Tiflis  are  the 
witnesses. 

As  the  white-robed  priests  raise  the  deep  swelling 
tones  of  the  Russian  marriage  service,  while  the 
boy  choir  alternates  in  music  of  the  angels,  Ahmed 
Schamyl's  eyes  grow  misty.  Supported  by  Abdal- 
Jah,  whose  loving-kindness  endears  him,  silent  Ma- 


318  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

ritza  watches  all.  The  good  Sisters  of  Chanty 
meekly  tell  their  beads  near  by.  Maritza,  the  Rose 
of  Tiflis,  wonders  at  the  mystic  ceremony.  She 
makes  no  sign. 

Clad  in  rich,  clinging  white  robes,  the  beautiful 
girl's  face  is  childlike.  No  words  escape  the  sealed 
portals  of  her  rosy  lips,  but  she  smiles  and  points 
in  glee  at  the  golden  crowns  held  over  the  heads  of 
bride  and  groom. 

Ahmed's  pearls  are  gleaming  to-day  on  her  neck. 
On  her  bosom  she  wears  the  white  cross  of  Schamyl. 
With  a  strange  childish  fancy,  she  will  not  part  with 
it,  but  plays  with  it  for  hours. 

Quietly,  royally,  the  wedding-breakfast  ends  the 
celebration.  Maritza,  gentle  soul,  follows  meekly 
the  happy  bride.  For  pain  and  sorrow,  joy  and 
hope's  high  longings,  touch  not  her  idle  mind. 

It  is  two  weeks  after  the  bridal,  when  the  advice 
of  the  wisest,  Abdallah's  utter  lack  of  hope,  and 
General  LazarefT's  wishes,  decide  the  loving  circle 
to  go  abroad  with  the  stricken  one.  Perhaps  change 
of  scene,  some  skilful  specialist,  some  providential 
chance,  may  break  the  silence  of  this  affected  daugh 
ter  of  princes. 

General  Lazareff,  a  lion  of  the  triumphant  court 
circles,  aids  with  his  widest  experience  in  every 
plan.  To  Schamyl  he  brings  news  from  Mehemet 
Pacha.  Ghazee  Schamyl  and  his  Kurdish  bride 
have  disappeared.  Tiflis  is  in  general  sorrow 
for  the  loved  princess.  The  utmost  '  skill  of  spy 
and  agent,  secret  section  and  refugee,  fail  to 
connect  Ghazee  directly  with  the  blow  so  foully 
struck. 


PRINCE   SCHAMYLS   WOOING.  319 

Rejected  by  the  Turks,  Ghazee  has  fled  to  Egypt, 
to  Arabia,  perchance  to  Morocco. 

Grim  Lazareff  recounts  the  positive  threats  of  the 
Russian  government  to  the  Turkish  authorities,  that 
any  appearance  of  Ghazee  on  the  border  would  be 
followed  by  prompt  and  unpitying  punishment.  He 
is  useless  to  the  Turks  now.  Mustapha  Bey  seeks 
vengeance  for  Nadya  Vronsky's  death. 

Old  Ismail  Pacha  knows  the  fate  of  a  Russian 
renegade,  traitor,  and  deserter.  The  wily  Kurd 
aided  the  disappearance  of  the  would-be  assassin  ! 

Gathered  in  St.  Petersburg,  the  little  circle  makes 
ready  for  its  departure. 

It  is  high  time.  The  court  is  bidden  to  the  gor 
geous  ceremony  of  the  opening  of  the  Neva. 

From  the  huge  polygon,  the  gloomy  fortress  of 
Petropaulosk,  with  barbaric  opulence  of  display,  the 
governor  of  the  great  fortress  of  the  crown  in  state 
proceeds.  He  offers  in  a  golden  cup  the  waters  of 
the  Neva  to  the  imperial  lord  of  the  frozen  north. 

When  the  blue  waters  race  to  the  sea,  once  more 
clangor  of  bell  and  boom  of  cannon  peal  out.  The 
lord  of  the  waters  receives  the  announcement  of  the 
return  of  the  short  summer. 

General  and  Madame  Lazareff  attend  this  royal 
ceremony.  Countless  thousands  line  the  banks  to 
welcome  the  imperial  victor. 

The  splendor  of  Asia  wraps  the  peculiar  ceremony 
of  the  Russian  court  with  mediaeval  display.  Priest 
and  dignitary,  fashion  and  the  multitude,  lend  their 
aid. 

Platoff  and  his  happiest  of  brides  are  with  the 
party.  The  departure  is  only  delayed  for  Madame 


320  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

Lazareff,  who  must  take  part  in  the  great  reunion 
of  the  court. 

Seated  at  an  open  window  in  the  family  mansion, 
Prince  Ahmed  guards,  alone,  his  suffering  loved  one. 
Not  a  single  moment  has  she  been  unwatched  since 
the  fatal  stroke  of  the  demon  enemy. 

The  breath  of  spring  wanders  through  the  case 
ment.  There  are  roses  by  the  side  of  the  gentle 
invalid.  Save  for  her  vacant  silence  no  one  could 
tell  how  sadly  the  Rose  of  Tiflis  is  weighed  down 
by  the  paralysis  of  the  mysterious  poison. 

In  the  corner,  faithful  and  devoted,  the  Russian 
nun  sits,  praying  for  the  afflicted. 

Proud  music  swells  in  street  and  square.  The 
legions  of  the  Czar  are  marching  to  the  great  re 
view  of  victory.  For  the  Champ  de  Mars  to-day 
will  see  the  flower  of  Russia  march  past  with  the 
banners,  battle  consecrated,  of  Plevna  and  of  Kars, 
of  Shipka  and  of  Loftscha.  It  is  the  great  feast 
of  victory.  At  high  noon  the  boom  of  a  single 
gun  announces  the  departure  of  the  official  mes 
sage. 

"  The  Neva  is  open.  Its  waters  are  once  more 
under  guard  of  his  Majesty's  legions." 

The  golden  tribute  cup  is  offered  in  midstream  to 
the  Emperor. 

Schamyl  sadly  gazes  on  the  beautiful  girl  who 
heeds  not  the  swelling  martial  music.  Boom  of  bell 
or  the  joyous  cries  of  the  multitude  in  the  streets 
stir  her  not. 

He  cannot  ride  to-day  before  the  eyes  of  the 
great  Emperor,  and  the  dangerous  beauties  of  the 
northern  world. 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  321 

In  twenty  minutes  a  terrific  salvo  of  all  the  guns 
of  the  fortress  shakes  the  ground.  The  casements 
rattle  again  with  a  second  grand  peal  from  a  hun 
dred  steel  throats. 

Schamyl  hears  a  voice.     He  turns  like  a  flash. 

Maritza  is  standing,  her  hands  clasped.  There  is 
surely  a  strong  effort  of  her  will.  Her  lips  are  mov 
ing  ! 

The  nun  springs  toward  the  fair  girl.  When  the 
last  salvo  shakes  the  room  Maritza  cries,  "  The  Rus 
sians  are  coming!  Ahmed,  my  own!  He  comes 
to  save  me  !  " 

As  she  totters  and  sinks,  the  strong  arms  of  her 
lover  are  round  her. 

Resting  in  a  chair,  the  kneeling  nun  is  gazing  in 
rapture  on  her  brightening  face.  As  Schamyl's 
kisses  warm  her  waxen  hands,  she  slowly  mur 
murs  : 

"  They  are  coming  to  save  me  !  Ahmed  !  Killed  ? 
Oh,  my  God  !  " 

With  a  shriek  she  falls  exhausted  in  the  chair. 

That  sound  brings  Abdallah  from  his  noon-day 
prayers,  in  a  haste  which  proves  his  devotion. 

"  Quick  now  !  "  he  cries.  He  knows  the  voice  of 
the  silent  lady. 

"  A  flask  of  brandy  !  " 

A  restoring  draught  is  given  the  unconscious 
girl.  Ahmed  whispers  the  tidings. 

Abdallah  motions  the  nun  to  leave  the  room. 
The  black  robe  glides  to  the  door. 

"  Watch  her,  Prince,  ALONE,  when  she  wakes.  It 
is  our  last  chance  !  " 

He  shuffles  behind  a  curtain. 

21 


322  PRINCE   SCHAMYL  S  WOOING. 

A  faint  fluttering  of  the  eyelids.  Schamyl's  heart 
beats  as  if  it  would  burst  its  bonds.  O  God  !  have 
mercy ! 

The  lids  open  slowly.  He  is  kneeling  before  her. 
A  flash  of  lovelight  gleams  on  her  sweet  face.  She 
softly  says,  clasping  him  in  her  clinging  arms  : 

"  I  knew  you  would  come.  My  Ahmed,  my  lover ! 
Let  us  fly — away,  away  from  the  cannon  !  " 

The  seal  is  broken.  She  knows  him  now.  When 
the  carnage  sweeps  up,  late  in  the  afternoon,  with 
Madame  Lazareff  and  the  ladies,  old  Abdallah  in 
majesty  receives  them. 

"  Praise  be  to  Allah  !  Go  not  up  !  The  prophet 
of  God  has  sent  his  blessing  upon  the  angel  of  your 
house.  She  is  saved  !  " 

The  excited  ladies  throw  themselves  upon  the 
Moslem.  Platoff's  witching  bride,  the  stately  lady, 
and  the  nymphs  cause  him  to  think  that  the  Prank 
ish  women  are  marvels.  He  gently  leads  them  into 
the  drawing-room. 

It  is  his  hour  of  supreme  triumph.  In  a  half- 
hour,  with  clattering  escort,  General  Lazareff  and 
Colonel  Platoff  ride  into  the  courtyard. 

Platoff  is  astounded  !  His  sweet  wife  almost 
throws  herself  under  the  feet  of  the  chargers. 

"  Paul  !  Paul !  Come  !  She  is  saved  !  "  she  cries. 
He  leaps  to  the  ground. 

With  an  agility  which  the  young  men  envy,  old 
General  Lazareff  throws  himself  also  out  of  the 
saddle.  Plumes,  stars,  and  medals,  jingling  sabre, 
and  all,  he  dashes  into  the  house.  Platoff  is  in  his 
wife's  arms.  She  is  weeping  and  laughing. 

"  Softly,  great  chief,"  entreats  Abdallah.     "  I  will 


PRINCE    SCHAMYL'S   WOOING.  323 

go  up  and  find  if  I  may  show  you  this  child  of 
Allah's  grace." 

Lumbering  up  the  stairs,  blessing  the  prophet's 
name,  Abdallah  returns. 

He  leads  the  procession  and  entreats  silence. 

Into  the  room,  one  after  another,  the  delighted 
throng  softly  pass. 

It  is  a  dream  of  heavenly  peace  and  joy !  For 
there,  under  the  mild  smile  of  the  jewelled  picture 
of  the  Virgin  Mother,  lies  the  Rose  of  Tiflis.  Scha- 
myl,  with  the  light  of  his  new-found  happiness 
transfiguring  his  face,  holds  one  slender  hand  which 
peeps  out  of  the  coverlid.  The  great  ruby  ring 
gleams  upon  the  snowy  finger  he  is  caressing.  On 
his  bosom  shines  once  more  his  own  white  cross. 

Her  lovely  face  beams  with  the  radiance  of  the 
old  days.  Her  arms  close  around  Vera  Platoff  in 
the  first  kiss  of  a  new  sisterhood. 

One  by  one  the  circle  greet  with  tenderest  words 
the  beauty  of  Tiflis  returned  from  the  dark  land 
of  shadows. 

Abdallah  leads  them  from  the  room.  But  by  her 
side,  in  rapture,  the  prince  of  the  Caucasus  watches 
the  lovely  one  whose  eyes  are  now  closing  in  the 
slumber  of  happy  excitement. 


The  delightful  days  following  the  return  of 
Princess  Maritza's  consciousness  bring  but  one 
disagreement  among  the  dwellers  in  the  house  of 

joy- 
General   Lazareff  ascribes  the   cure  to   the  sage 

and  doubly  venerated  Abdallah. 

The  old  Turk  gravely  relates  how,  at  the  hour  of 


324  PRINCE    SCHAMYL'S   WOOING. 

his  noon-day  prayer,  the  mighty  hand  of  the  prophet 
was  stretched  forth  in  aid. 

The  Russian  ladies,  aided  by  the  gentle  Sisters, 
in  grateful  prayer  bow  before  the  holy  picture  of 
the  jewelled  shrine.  It  is  a  new  miracle  ! 

Practical  Paul  PlatofT,  with  pardonable  profes 
sional  pride,  insists  that  the  terrific  shock  of  the 
salvos  of  the  fortress  artillery  recalled  the  awful 
cannonade  of  Kars.  It  broke,  with  overmastering 
power  of  fear,  memory,  and  love,  the  seal  of  silence. 

The  gallant  and  stately  Schamyl,  whispering 
burning  words  of  love's  long  silent  story  to  *he 
now  blooming  beauty,  is  too  happy  and  thankful 
to  argue.  He  thinks  he  can  hear  the  silver  chime 
of  wedding-bells. 

CHAPTER   XV. 

AN  EMPEROR'S  GIFT. — THE  BRIDES  OF  DARGO. — 
TIDINGS  OF  GHAZEE. — A  LAST  SHOT. — UNDER 
THE  WHITE  TOWER.  —  TREASURE  -  TROVE.  - 

KISMET. 

BENEATH  the  fragrant  spring  blossoms,  Ahmed 
and  Maritza  take  up  the  golden  threads  of  love's 
precious  story.  They  walk  the  gardens  of  the  Orbe- 
lian  palace. 

Her  recovery  is  absolute.  Calmly  Abdallah  eyes 
his  completed  work.  All  the  physicians  demand 
that  she  be  spared  every  excitement. 

Ignorant  of  the  cause  of  her  illness  and  the  insidi 
ous  attack  on  her  life,  Maritza  de  Deshkalin  looks 
forward  only  to  her  coming  marriage. 

The  departure  of  the  Lazareffs  is  delayed  for  the 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  325 

bridal.  The  wedding-bells  ring  out.  Happy  Maritza 
accedes  to  Prince  Ahmed's  wishes  for  an  immediate 
union. 

Before  the  altar  where  Paul  and  Vera  joined  their 
hands,  Schamyl  takes  the  Rose  to  his  bosom  for  aye. 
It  is  a  dream  of  quiet  ecstasy,  the  solemn  pageant ! 

After  the  ceremony,  lovely  Maritza  learns  of  the 
strange  tie  doubly  binding  to  her  heart  the  budding 
matron  Vera. 

A  wedding  of  surprises!  An  imperial  aide  pre 
sented  himself  as  a  witness  for  the  Czar.  A  delega 
tion  of  the  officers  of  the  Circassians  of  the  royal 
guard  appeared  on  behalf  of  the  army. 

Count  Ignatief;  in  stately  grandeur,  gazed  on  the 
beautiful  scene.  Standing  in  the  halls  of  the  palace, 
gazing  on  his  long  unknown  but  ever-loved  mother's 
face,  Prince  Schamyl,  ready  for  the  ceremony, 
receives  as  a  personal  gift  from  the  Emperor  the 
storied  sword  which  his  father  bore  in  his  kingly 
sway  over  the  Caucasus.  His  rank  as  major-general 
with  it  ! 

A  mandate  to  appear,  in  special  audience,  before 
the  Czar,  at  Tsarskoe-Zeloe,  accompanies  this  crown 
ing  honor  of  a  sovereign's  grace. 

On  behalf  of  the  Empress,  the  courtly  Ignatief 
presents  to  the  bride  a  necklace  of  diamonds,  which, 
glistening  on  her  neck  at  a  special  presentation  of 
the  groom  and  bride,  is  a  signal  mark  of  the  favor 
of  the  august  Czarina. 

Ahmed  Schamyl,  among  the  roses  blooming  in  his 
mother's  fairy  bowers,  finds  no  rose  as  fair  as  the 
blushing  bride  whose  sorrows  have  melted  away 
under  the  sun  of  the  wedding-morn. 


326  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

In  the  old  hall,  seated  as  master  of  the  feast,  Paul 
Platoff  toasts  the  loveliest  bride  in  Russia.  His 
eyes  fondly  rest  upon  Vera,  a  matron  of  brief  but 
wondrous  experience,  sitting  in  piquant  beauty — the 
lady  of  the  castle. 

While  the  feast  is  at  its  height,  Count  Ignatief 
takes  his  leave.  Yet  he  lingers  for  an  hour  of 
earnest  conference  with  Colonel  Platoff  and  Abdal- 
lah.  A  man  of  mysteries!  The  book  of  the  past 
has  yet  its  sealed  pages. 

Golden  days  run  away,  lightly  linked  in  rosy  bands. 
There  is  happiness  in  the  home  of  the  Orbelians. 
Maritza's  face  glows'  with  the  olden  beauty  and  a 
newer  light. 

Abdallah  with  majestic  mien  takes  an  affecting 
farewell  of  his  friends.  He  has  a  secret  mission. 
The  gloomy  fastnesses  o/  his  Goomri  abode  will 
soon  receive  him.  "  Inshallah  !  The  peace  of  the 
prophet  be  upon  you  all ! "  he  utters,  as  he  salaams. 
He  is  not  loath  to  revisit  his  own  harem. 

The  return  of  the  brides  to  Tiflis,  and  a  visit  to 
Dargo,  is  the  finale  of  the  weddings.  The  brother 
and  sister  long  to  see  the  old  castle  of  their  birth. 
It  will  be  graced  by  the  presence  of  Abdallah.  He 
is  charged  with  secret  missions  from  the  foreign 
office.  A  special  duty  is  laid  on  him  also  by  Count 
Ignatief.  He  goes  rejoicing  on  his  way. 

Platoff  alone  knows  its  import.  The  Prince  and 
Princess  Schamyl,  in  state,  as  due  their  rank,  bow 
to  the  rulers  of  the  great  empire. 

Schamyl's  chosen  command,  the  cavalry  of  the 
frontier,  awaits  him.  To  Circassia  !  Away  ! 

It  is  his  dearest  wish  to  restore  and  reoccupy  the 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  327 

vacant  halls  of  Dargo,  where  his  father's  white  man 
tle  once  glittered  in  pride. 

To  show  Paul  the  glories  of  the  matchless  Cau 
casus  ;  to  wander  hand  in  hand  with  Vera  where 
their  gentle  mother  lingered  in  her  cloud-capped 
palace  ;  to  see  the  star-like  eyes  of  Maritza  shining 
on  him  among  her  own  roses  at  Tiflis,  where  the  sil 
ver  minarets  of  great  Ararat  rise  far  in  the  sapphire 
sky — is  the  prince's  fondest  desire. 

Week  after  week  of  Petersburg's  fetes  and  splen 
dors  have  exhausted  the  public  capacity  for  frantic 
rejoicing.  The  court  and  its  gilded  circle  begin  to 
seek  the  bosky  woods  and  the  fragrant  dells  of  the 
romantic  country  palaces.  Old  boyar,  great  noble, 
proud  prince,  and  powerful  courtier  disperse  to  Fin 
land,  the  Crimea,  or  family  mansions  far  away  from 
the  shadows  of  the  Winter  Palace. 

The  Lazareffs  make  the  "  grand  tour."  It  is  a 
family  party  of  four  which,  in  merriest  mood,  leaves 
for  the  storied  mountains  of  the  Tcherkess.  Rus 
sian  prestige  demands  it. 

PlatofT  and  Ahmed  recount  their  campaign  scenes 
as  the  plains  of  the  Kherson  fly  by.  The  happy 
brides  are  waiting  to  see  the  white  peak  of  Elburz 
rise  from  the  southern  line  of  the, steppes. 

Day  by  day  the  long  panorama  unrolls.  In  the 
gorges  of  the  royal  peaks  the  song  of  the  pines  wel 
comes  the  wanderers. 

Fragrant  breezes  fan  the  brows  of  the  merry 
beauties. 

At  Vladikaukas,  an  -escort  of  honor  awaits  the 
Prince  of  the  Caucasus.  Schamyl's  heart  bounds 
with  pride  when  he  recognizes  in  the  wild  "  Hourra," 


328  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

the  voices  of  the  men  who  followed  him  when  he 
first  smote  the  Kurdish  raiders. 
It  is  his  own  body-guard. 

General   Prince    Melikoff    would   honor  the   man 
who  bears  the  magic  sabre  of  great  Sultan  Schamyl. 
The    special    favor  of   the   Czar  radiates  around 
Ahmed's  head  in  glory. 

Once  more  in  her  girlhood's  home,  at  Tiflis,  Ma- 
ritza  wanders  through  the  leafy  shades.  They  are 
now  blooming  with  rose  and  myrtle.  The  Caucasus 
is  a  paradise.  The  gardens  by  the  Kara  are  a 
dream  of  witchery.  By  Ahmed's  side,  the  Rose  of 
Tiflis,  a  happy  wife,  with  bated  breath  shows  him 
where  she  was  hurried  to  the  river,  a  helpless  cap 
tive.  These  are  golden  days  ! 

There  is  no  fear  now  !     For  looking  far  to  where 
Kars  frowns  upon   its  beetling    cliffs,   beyond   the 
swift  Kara,  it  is  all  Russia ! 
Russian  land  evermore  ! 
Tiflis  en  fete  is  a  Paris  en  miniature. 
Paul    PlatofT,  envied   by  the  men,  adored   by  the 
ladies,  is  captured  by  Gronow  and  the  gallant  staff. 
The  review  of  Schamyl's  brigade,  in  all  its  wild 
chivalry,  on  the  square  where  he  first  told  his  love 
in  spite  of  the  gentle  chaperon,  brings  happy  tears 
to  the  eyes  of  Maritza. 

A  grand  ball,  at  which  the  courtly  Grand  Duke 
honors  each  bride  impartially,  revives  memories  of 
the  night  when  Schamyl  broke  his  word. 

For,  as  a  penance,  this  evening  he  dances  the 
mazurka  with  the  beauty  who  missed  that  last 
grand  ball. 

While    the    music    floats  out    into  the    delicious 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  329 

night,  and  Princess  Vera  Platoff  queens  it  with  her 
sister  rose — in  an  alcoved  recess — Platoff  gravely 
confers  with  Abdallah. 

"  May  the  smile  of  Allah  lighten  the  pathway  of 
the  just  and  valiant  !  I  have  good  news  for  you. 
I  have  discovered  the  truth  ! 

"  You  may  telegraph  the  wise  count !  "  Abdallah 
is  cheerful.  He  resumes. 

"  There  are  great  stores  of  gold  and  jeivels  left 
by  the  lion  of  Daghestan  in  the  old  palace  at 
Dargo. 

"  Count  Ignatief  is  a  diviner  of  the  buried  treas 
ures.  A  mighty  chief!  " 

"  Explain  !  "  cries  Platoff.  His  eager  looks  betray 
his  anxiety. 

Abdallah  strokes  his  beard. 

"  Patience,  my  son  !  When  I  returned  I  talked 
with  the  wily  Melikoff.  I  urged  on  him  that  now, 
if  any  knew  of  the  treasure,  they  would  be  lurking 
around  the  castle  of  Dargo." 

"  Go  on,  go  on,  Abdallah  !  "  cries  Platoff. 

"Gently,  my  son!  We  sent  a  strong  column  of 
the  Prince  Ahmed's  troops  to  surround  the  castle. 
They  had  secret  orders  to  permit  no  one  to  depart. 
The  refitting  of  the  castle  gave  reason  to  retain 
them  all.  Yet  there  is  much  to  do  in  examining 

o 

the  tower  from  the  old  description.  It  shows  no 
sign  of  a  hiding-place." 

"But  do  you  know  the  right  tower?"  Platoff 
interjects. 

"  Of  a  truth  !  We  found  one  or  two  suspicious 
dwellers  in  the  old  halls.  With  a  little  help  they 
told  what  they  knew.  The  treasures  are  there. 


330  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

Some  day  Lord  Ghazee  will  come  secretly  to  regain 
them.  He  alone  knows  the  hiding-place." 

"  How  do  you  know  this?  "  cries  Platoff. 

"  Of  a  verity,  these  were  the  last  words  the  dogs 
urged  to  prevent  their  death  !  "  Abdallah  rejoins. 

"Can  they  point  them  out?"  Platoff  is  now 
wild  with  curiosity. 

"Alas  !  great  friend,  they  died,  refusing  any  fur 
ther  disclosures.  They  protested  only  the  tower 
was  known  to  them.  Ghazee  alone  knows  the  whole 
secret." 

"They  died  !  "  Platoff  repeats,  stunned. 

"  It  was  the  only  way  to  prove  their  sincerity. 
They  knew  not.  But  we  will  discover  the  exact 
spot.  We  will  remove  the  whole  toiver" 

"  And  Ghazee  ?  "  Platoff  anxiously  asks. 

"  Far  away,  waiting  for  coming  years  to  cover  the 
memories  of  the  past.  These  treasures  are  all 
that  is  left  to  him  of  his  birthright."  Abdallah 
slowly  answers.  "  Ahmed  is  now  the  lord  of 
Daghestan." 

"  True,  Abdallah !  but  the  spoil  of  the  Russian 
armies  is  there,"  Platoff  rejoins. 

"  Very  good  !  Let  the  White  Czar  have  his 
own.  The  rest  goes  to  the  dark  lord  of  the  eagle 
eye." 

In  a  fortnight  a  splendid  cavalcade  leaves  Tiflis 
for  Dargo.  By  a  strange  desire  for  travel,  Abdallah 
is  at  the  old  palaces  before  the  double  wedding 
party. 

Seneschal  and  trusted  friend,  he  meets  them  at 
the  door. 

Only    Ignatief,  Platoff,  and   Abdallah  know  the 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  331 

story  of  the  secret  treasures  left  by  great  Schamyl 
before  gallant  Woronzoff  drove  him  out. 

In  summer-time  and  hey-day  of  youth,  life  before 
them,  love  around  them,  the  two  comrades  wander 
in  the  splendid  halls  of  the  romantic  castle.  They 
are  under  the  witching  eyes  of  the  brides  of  Dargo. 
Watch  and  ward  is  kept  by  the  faithful  soldiers  who 
followed  the  "  White  Cross  "  in  the  dark  days  of 
defeat  and  danger. 

Bluest  skies,  brightest  sunsets,  moonlight  dream 
ing  on  the  peaceful  river,  and  the  wild  song  of  the 
swaying  pines  mark  these  happiest  days,  never  to 
be  lost  from  love's  golden  calendar. 

Schamyl  and  his  lovely  sister,  hand  in  hand, 
clamber  over  the  old  ramparts  and  stray  in  the 
glens.  Princess  Maritza,  queen  of  the  flying  hours, 
calls  all  her  truants  together. 

For  Platoff  and  Abdallah  waste  hours  in  explor 
ing  every  nook  and  cranny  of  the  great  keep. 

Under  guard  of  their  gallant  horsemen,  the  old 
battle-fields  are  visited.  Deep  reaches  of  the 
romantic  forest,  smiling  valleys  where  the  ripening 
fruits  now  hang  in  clusters,  are  explored. 

Shy  Circassian  girls  wonder  at  the  fairness  of  the 
two  ladies  who  gayly  gallop  through  the  forest 
arches  with  their  lords.  An  ideal  life  in  a  match 
less  land ! 

Days  slip  by  unheeded.  The  foot  of  Time  falls 
softly  on  the  roses  beneath  the  feet  of  the  brides  of 
Dargo. 

Platoff  and  Ahmed  chase  the  forest  game  far 
afield.  The  old  halls  gleam  at  night  with  banquet 
mirth. 


332  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

Schamyl,  gazing  on  his  lovely  wife,  whose  smile  is 
sweeter  for  the  sorrows  once  printed  on  her  peerless 
brow,  wonders  if  she  will  ever  know  of  the  dark 
vow  of  Ghazee  dooming  her  innocent  life.  Would 
he  were  dead  !  Then  the  future  would  be  secure. 
The  renegade  still  lives !  Though  far  away,  still  he 
lives ! 

A  Circassian  is  always  a  Circassian.  Ahmed 
gravely  questions  Abdallah.  He  knows  naught  of 
his  haunts.  Even  Mehemet  Pacha,  who  sends  a 
royal  gift  of  jewels,  Persian  shawls,  and  gossamer 
from  rarest  India's  looms,  writes  that  the  deserter 
is  gone  forever,  the  wild  Kurdish  princess  with  him. 

In  a  few  months  Ahmed  will  meet  Mehemet  at 
the  border.  Can  he  ever  reward  him  for  that  old 
comradeship,  which  saved  him  from  gallant  Tar- 
naieffs  awful  doom? 

To  ride  in  grand  battue  the  woods,  to  chase  the 
boar  and  bear,  to  show  Platoff  a  true  Circassian 
field  hunt,  the  mingled  train  of  soldiers,  attendants, 
and  hill  dwellers  rides  out  at  early  morn. 

They  enclose,  by  a  sharp  secret  night  ride,  twenty 
miles  around  the  great  mountain  range  overlooking 
Dargo.  Dozens  of  mountaineers,  in  lines,  drive 
down  the  game  at  morn  with  fires,  with  sound  of 
horn,  with  chase  of  hounds. 

It  is  the  sparkling  hour  of  early  daybreak.  The 
mists  hang  yet  on  the  mountains,  when  Ahmed  and 
Platoff  merrily  spring  to  the  saddle.  The  two 
ladies,  superbly  mounted,  are  conducted,  with  a 
dozen  retainers,  by  their  lords  to  see  the  frightened 
game  break  from  the  covert  and  seek  the  glen 
toward  the  river,  its  only  escape. 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  333 

The  violet's  fragrance  is  fresh  on  the  dew-dia 
monded  grass.  The  birds  whirr  away  before  the 
horses'  feet.  Far  on  the  hills,  horn  and  hound 
sound  Diana's  greeting  to  the  rising  sun. 

Platoff,  a  veteran  sportsman,  rides  with  the  ad 
vance.  Ahmed  guides  the  ladies— rosier  and  love 
lier  than  the  blossoms  of  the  perfumed  forests. 
They  wind  down  below  the  old  castle  toward  the 
river.  Down  into  the  mouth  of  the  glen  the  caval 
cade  moves.  It  is  here  the  startled  game  will  break 
cover. 

Under  the  shadow  of  a  beetling  crag  the  advance 
halts.  The  lord  of  the  chase  stations  his  ladies 
with  their  attendants.  As  the  party  draws  up, 
Schamyl  bends  over  to  say  a  whispered  word  to 
the  woman  whose  sunny  smile  lights  this  new  and 
happy  life.  A  merry  laugh  is  on  her  lips. 

Sharp  and  clear  from  the  crag  a  rifle  shot  rings 
out  !  The  horse  of  Princess  Maritza  falls,  rolling 
over  her!  There  is  a  wild  shout !  She  lies  motion 
less!  Her  face  pale  as  ashes!  Before  Schamyl  can 
spring  from  his  black  Kara,  a  second  answering  vol 
ley  echoes  near  him.  There  is  a  wild  yell  of  defi 
ance  !  A  dozen  men  aid  the  prince  !  The  loved 
one  is  only  bruised  and  stunned.  Her  gallant  steed 
lies  dead,  shot  through  the  spine. 

While  Schamyl  makes  a  couch  of  cloaks,  and 
learns  from  her  own  words  Maritza  is  unwounded, 
Paul  Platoff,  standing  by  his  side,  his  smoking  rifle 
in  his  hand,  says :  "  I  fear  I  missed  him.  The 
wretch  !  " 

A  baying  of  hounds  !  A  chorus  of  yells  arouses 
the  prince ' 


334  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

Springing  wildly  along  the  face  of  the  nearest 
crag,  a  man  is  running  for  his  life  !  He  is  in  flowing 
Persian  garb.  A  rifle  is  in  his  hands  !  Half  a  dozen 
of  the  Tcherkess  gallop  around  the  crag  to  cut  him 
off! 

Darting  in  and  out  among  the  jutting  rocks,  he 
glides  like  a  hunted  animal. 

In  an  instant  twenty  armed  men  are  scaling  the 
rocks  to  secure  him  !  Some  lurking  spy  unearthed 
by  the  beaters !  He  was  stealing  up  from  the  river 
when  sighted. 

Schamyl  gazes  at  the  castle  not  three  hundred 
yards  away.  Its  old  keep  hangs  over  the  bastioned 
wall  commanding  the  glen. 

"  Platoff,  direct  this  man's  capture.  I  will  take 
the  ladies  back  and  rejoin  you,"  Ahmed  calls. 

With  the  aid  of  the  attendants  the  frightened 
Maritza  is  hurried  in  safety  to  the  castle !  Who 
was  the  assailant  ? 

Some  hunted  fugitive  Moslem  ! 

Keen-eyed  Tcherkess  are  swarming  over  the 
crag.  They  return  to  report  empty  hands.  The 
bird  has  flown. 

"  I  saw  him  stealing  through  the  bushes  toward 
the  castle,"  cries  Platoff,  as  he  aids  in  the  removal 
of  Princess  Maritza  to  the  quiet  of  her  rooms. 

Shaken  and  startled,  bruised,  but,  thank  God ! 
safe! 

Vera  Platoff  watches  her  friend !  Abdallah  is 
again  Dr.  Abdallah. 

Schamyl  dashes  back  to  the  guard  gate,  and  orders 
a  patrol  to  scour  the  country.  Platoff  returns  with 
him  to  the  hunt.  The  attendants  slay  the  game 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  335 

now  pouring  down  the  glen.  With  grave  brows, 
Schamyl  and  Platoff  examine  every  inch  of  the 
path  followed  by  the  murderous  refugee.  Not  a 
sign  of  his  presence !  The  copse  leading  to  the 
castle  walls,  the  growth  of  twenty  years,  affords  a 
hiding-place. 

Schamyl  sends  in  a  platoon  to  search  every  yard 
of  the  shrubbery. 

While  Platoff  and  himself,  seated  on  a  rock,  dis 
cuss  this  mystery,  a  shout  of  joy  is  heard.  In  five 
minutes  one  searcher  hands  Ahmed  a  heavy  rifle, 
another  lays  at  his  feet  a  Persian  skin  water-bottle. 
It  is  full.  There  is  a  girdle  to  which  the  water- 
bottle  was  attached.  It  was  torn  off  in  the  flight. 

Ahmed  examines  the  rifle  carefully.  It  is  the 
TurkisJi  Martini-Henry.  A  shade  settles  on  his 
brow.  The  girdle  is  heavy.  With  a  stroke  of  his 
dagger  he  cuts  it  open.  Cartridges,  fresh  and  new, 
all  of  the  American  make!  It  is  the  Turkish  army 
ammunition. 

"  Platoff,  this  is  some  Turkish  assassin  !  "  Scha 
myl  slowly  says. 

"  I  will  put  a  chain  of  concealed  guards  around 
the  castle  at  night,  and  keep  a  cordon  around  the 
vicinity.  This  devil  never  got  far  away.  He  was 
too  heavily  loaded.  My  guards  will  be  in  blindings, 
and  keep  quiet.  We  will  get  him  when  he  tries 
to  sneak  away.  He  is  near  here  yet." 

"  Why  so  ?  "  Platoff  questions. 

"  The  heavy,  full  water-bottle,  its  outside  skin 
still  wet,  shows  he  came  up  from  the  river.  He 
risked  his  life  to  sneak  down  there  and  fill  it," 
Schamyl  reflectively  answers. 


336  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

"  And  then  ?  "     Platoff  grows  pale. 

"  He  has  some  place  of  hiding  !  Some  object  in 
lingering  near  here  !  Paul,  it  looks  bad  !  I  am  go 
ing  to  take  the  ladies  to  Tiflis.  This  old  haunt  is 
accursed !  I  go  not  till  I  catch  this  rascal !  " 

Schamyl  muses.  His  brow  is  dark.  The  hunt  is 
still  ringing  in  the  vale.  The  keen  warriors  are 
making  a  royal  bag.  It  is  a  scene  of  wild  excite 
ment. 

"  I  have  it !  I  will  station  a  few  men  secretly. 
They  can  be  changed  after  dark.  I  will  let  the 
hunt  run  out.  We  will  return  to  the  castle." 

These  orders  given,  Paul  and  Schamyl  enter  the 
gateway,  where  the  old  white  tower  hangs  over 
its  frowning  bastion  wall.  An  attendant  bears  the 
rifle,  water-bottle,  and  the  cartridges. 

Platoff  examines  the  belt.  He  swings  it  in  his 
hands.  It  is  of  the  finest  Persian  embroidery  on 
leather — a  money  or  jewel  belt  once,  now  a  mere 
cartridge  pouch.  A  paper  flutters  from  its  cut 
sides.  Platoff  picks  it  up. 

Schamyl  grasps  it.  It  is  a  sketch  plan  of  the 
white  toiver.  The  cold  sweat  stands  on  Paul's 
brow. 

"  Schamyl,  not  a  word  !  Come  in  and  see  Ab- 
dallah.  He  can  tell  you  a  strange  story.  Hasten  !  " 

In  Schamyl's  hunting-room  the  old  jeweller,  Pla 
toff,  and  Ahmed  bend  over  the  plan.  It  is  an  exact 
sketch  of  the  white  tower. 

Schamyl's  eyes  glow  as-  the  old  Turk  tells  him  of 
the  fabled  hidden  treasure  of  Dargo. 

He  turns  reproachful  eyes  on  Paul. 

"  I  kept  this  secret,  Ahmed.      We  did  not  wish  to 


PRINCE   SCHAMYL  S    WOOING.  337 

excite  you  till  we  verified  some  part  of  the  old 
tale.  It  is  now  time  to  act." 

"  Yes  !  "  Ahmed  cries.  "  This  mysterious  enemy 
is  lurking  to  reach  that  treasure.  His  arms  and  all 
signs  show  he  came  from  over  the  Araxes." 

A  horrible  thought  flashes  over  Schamyl.  The 
vendetta  of  the  amulet  !  No,  it  cannot  be  ! 

As  Abdallah  tells  of  the  executed  spies,  Platoff 
cries,  "  I  have  it  !  This  man  knows  the  secret  of 
the  entrance  to  the  white  tower  !  He  alone  has 
the  whole  knowledge  !  " 

And  yet  the  plan  is  perfectly  plain.  It  shows 
no  secret  vault.  Schamyl  muses.  "  I'll  catch  him 
first,  and  then  blow  down  the  tower  !  " 

Platoff  is  at  the  window,  examining  the  mysteri 
ous  paper.  It  is  an  old  and  worn  parchment. 

"Here!"  shouts  Platoff.  "Here  is  the  secret 
chamber  !  " 

The  two  friends  spring  to  his  side.  Triumphantly 
holding  it  up  before  the  light,  a  faintly  traced  line 
shines  through.  It  shows  a  vault  under  the  foun 
dations  of  the  old  tower. 

It  is  true  !  And  yet  no  egress  or  ingress  !  There 
is  the  royal  secret  ! 

Schamyl  raises  his  head  after  pondering.  "  I  will 
not  delay  a  minute.  Abdallah,  you  join  the  ladies 
and  stay  with  them.  Tell  them  we  are  going  to  fire 
some  of  the  old  cannon. 

"  Paul,  come  with  me.    We  will  blow  out  the  wall." 

The  two  officers,  in  half  an  hour,  have  satisfied 

themselves    there    is    no    manner   of    reaching   the 

concealed  crypt  from  the  interior.      With  plan  laid 

down,  examining   keenly  the  bastion  wall,  Platoff 

22 


338  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

says  :  "  This  is  the  nearest  point  to  the  chamber. 
Blow  out  the  side  wall  here.  The  tower  will  yet 
stand.  We  can  then  tunnel  in  behind  the  heavy 
face  wall." 

In  two  hours  the  preparations  are  complete.  The 
huntsmen  are  returned.  Concealed  guards  have 
their  orders  to  shoot  any  fugitive. 

Reassuring  the  lovely  Maritza,  and  privately  in 
forming  Vera  of  the  intended  explosion,  Schamyl 
and  Platoff  send  in  a  line  of  guards  to  clear  the  west 
angle  of  the  old  courtyard. 

All  is  ready.  A  couple  of  heavy  powder  bags 
affixed  to  crowbars  driven  in  the  loose  crevices  of 
the  old  bastion  wall,  will  bring  down  twenty  feet 
of  the  wall  on  their  explosion. 

A  half  dozen  resolute  men  are  at  hand. 

With  his  own  hand  Schamyl  fires  the  mine.  A 
flash,  a  rumble,  a  crash  !  From  their  safety  refuge 
the  friends  can  see  a  yawning  gap.  The  old  wall  is 
thrown  out.  The  tower  stands  still,  firm  and  strong. 

Schamyl  is  the  first  man  at  the  breach.  Lanterns 
and  lights  are  at  hand.  He  is  ready  to  enter. 

"  Beware  !  "  cries  Platoff.  "  The  air  may  be  foul. 
Let  the  mass  settle  also." 

A  lantern  on  a  long  pole  is  pushed  in.  A  regular 
opening  is  seen — a  tunnel  leading  in  under  the 
tower.  It  is  no  idle  tale  ! 

Cautiously  advancing  with  lights,  which  burn 
clearly,  Schamyl  gropes  his  way  into  the  narrow 
tunnel  leading  to  the  crypt. 

PlatofT  is  behind  him.  Ahmed  picks  his  way  to 
ward  the  tower. 

Platoff  calls  to  the  others  to  hold  back  till  needed. 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  339 

He  gazes  down  the  long  hole  burrowed  under  the 
bastion  wall.  It  is  blocked  by  a  man's  body  ! 

With  a  half  shriek  he  calls  Schamyl  back. 

41  Ahmed,  for  Heaven's  sake  !  Here,  there  is  a 
man  buried  !  " 

"  Wait  !  "  calls  Schamyl.  His  voice  sounds 
strangely  muffled.  "  Let  me  go  first." 

The  treasures  of  the  chamber  can  be  later  ex 
amined.  It  may  be  only  an  empty  cavern  of  bats. 
But  crushed  and  pinned  by  the  falling  stones,  twenty 
feet  beyond  the  rent  in  the  wall,  is  the  body  of  a 
man,  doubled  up  ! 

Platoff  crawls  down  after  Schamyl. 

"  This  is  the  spy,  caught  by  the  explosion  !  " 
Ahmed  excitedly  says.  They  near  him.  It  is  the 
fugitive  in  the  Persian  robes.  His  breast  is  pinned 
by  the  blocks  of  the  bastion  wall  sliding  down.  His 
head  covered  with  fallen  dust  and  sand.  He  is 
dead  !  Tons  of  stone  rest  on  his  silent  breast. 

Prince  Ahmed  scrapes  away  the  sand  and  grime. 

PlatofFs  heart  stops  beating,  for  his  friend  drops 
lantern  and  screams: 

"  Ghazee,  my  brother !  " 

It  is  indeed  so !  Crawling  up,  Platoff  satisfies 
himself.  The  heavy,  malignant  face,  its  red  beard, 
the  staring  eye,  his  well-known  burly  form — on  his 
head  the  peaked  caftan  of  the  Persian  ! 

Schamyl  quickly  cries  : 

"  Go  back  !  Let  no  one  come  !  Leave  me  with 
the  dead  !  I  want  no  one  to  enter  here  !  " 

Platoff,  crawling  and  stooping,  works  back  to  the 
crater's  opening.  He  stations  a  guard  and  gropes 
back  to  the  death-chamber. 


340  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

Rejoining  Ahmed,  Platoff  asks  his  wishes. 

He  is  yet  working  and  digging  in  the  debris. 
His  voice  is  a  hissing  whisper. 

"  Paul,  there  is  some  one  else  over  there !  I  can 
not  see.  I  can  only  feel  a  foot.  It  is  a  boy  /  Dead 
also  !  " 

With  ten  minutes'  labor  the  two  friends  clear 
away  enough  to  see.  They  dare  not  loosen  more. 
The  bastion  wall  might  settle.  Neither  body  can 
be  removed.  * 

Platoff  forces  Schamyl  to  desist. 

"  It  cannot  be  reached,  Ahmed !  I  will  not  have 
you  risk  your  life  !  I  will  pull  off  the  riding-boot. 
It  is  a  small  man  or  a  boy."  He  throws  the  boot 
away. 

Schamyl  picks  it  up. 

He  crawls  to  the  front.  Catching  Platoff  in  a 
vice-like  grip,  he  shows  him  by  the  light  the  boot. 

"  This  is  a  Kurdish  boot,  Paul !  Look  there,  that 
is  a  woman's  foot  and  ankle  !  " 

Platoff  shudders. 

"  It  is  !  "  he  mutters. 

"  The  Kurdish  princess  !  "  Schamyl  replies  hoarse 
ly.  *•  This  shall  be  their  tomb,  Paul  !  " 

It  is  indeed  Ghazee  and  his  wild  bride.  His 
girdle  is  gone.  He  has  no  arms  but  a  dagger. 
Platoff  picks  it  up.  By  his  side  a  small  sack  is 
lying.  It  is  heavy. 

Crawling  out  with  dagger  and  sack,  Platoff  joins 
Schamyl.  At  a  sign,  the  artillerist  assists  Schamyl 
to  block  up  the  tunnel  way  with  loose  stones  from 
the  opening  of  the  rift. 

Five  minutes  later  they  are  in  the  crypt   under 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  341 

the  tower.  It  is  a  strongly  vaulted  room  made 
by  the  recesses  of  the  huge  foundations  of  the 
tower. 

At  a  glance  the  friends  see  that  the  vault  has 
been  lately  occupied.  It  is  filled  with  chests,  bales, 
and  bundles. 

Swords  and  armor,  old  vessels,  and  a  mass  of 
Asiatic  articles — the  booty  of  old  victories  !  The 
secret  hiding-place  of  Sultan  Schamyl  the  mystic! 

Prince  Ahmed  examines  the  bag  which  Platoff 
carries.  Cutting  its  cords  with  the  dag~er  of  the 
dead  man,  its  contents  are  blazing  jewels.  There  is 
a  princely  fortune  in  the  sack. 

Schamyl  quickly  makes  his  plan. 

"  We  will  send  Abdallah  here  to  take  charge.  I 
wish  this  secret  to  be  kept.  It  is  God's  justice  by 
His  own  hand  on  Ghazee's  crimes. 

"  We  will  remove  all,  in  charge  of  Abdallah.  You 
and  I  will  see  the  rift  in  the  wall  filled  in  solid  with 
stone.  The  ivy  and  creeper  will  cover  it  in  a 
month." 

Before  the  evening  shades  have  fallen,  the  vast 
treasures  of  the  old  sultan  are  removed  to  the 
castle — gold  and  jewels,  cups  and  masses  of  the 
precious  metals,  jewelled  weapons  and  horse-gear 
of  untold  value !  The  bastion  wall  is  roughly 
closed  up  forever. 

The  delighted  brides,  aided  by  Abdallah,  are  class 
ing  the  jewels  and  choosing  the  princeliest  of  the 
treasure-trove  for  themselves. 

They  know  not  the  secret  of  the  tunnel,  with  the 
fugitive  lovers  lying  dead  under  the  massy  blocks  of 
the  old  bastion. 


342  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

Their  excited  happiness  in  the  discovery  of  the 
hidden  treasures  chases  away  all  other  thoughts. 
Even  the  morning's  adventure  is  forgotten. 

Prince  Schamyl  and  PlatofT  wander  on  the  ram 
parts.  They  agree  upon  a  course  of  action.  It  is 
easy  for  them  to  locate  the  near  vicinity  of  the 
concealed  tunnel  mouth. 

Looking  down  from  the  base  of  the  old  tower,  his 
stern,  martial  face  now  in  repose,  Ahmed  Schamyl 
traces  the  fugitive  in  his  career. 

"  He  alone  knew  how  to  enter  the  tunnel  and  thus 
reach  the  crypt.  Perhaps  the  last  death-message  of 
my  warrior  father  revealed  it.  The  drawing  may 
have  been  delivered  to  him,  with  the  secret,  by  the 
Turkish  authorities,  after  the  declaration  of  war. 
That  mystery  is  sealed  in  his  cold  breast. 

"  Disguising  himself  as  a  Persian,  and  taking  the 
Kurdish  dare-devil  girl-wife,  dressed  as  a  boy,  he 
secreted  himself  near  here.  It  was  clearly  his  idea 
to  remove  the  choicest  of  the  treasures.  Abdallah's 
slyness  caught  his  spies.  Forced  to  live  in  the  crypt, 
it  was  while  bringing  water  he  risked  his  life  and 
was  accidentally  discovered.  His  last  shot  may  have 
been  for  me.  He  may  have  tried  only  to  delay  pur 
suit  till  he  could  hide.  At  night  he  could  have  stolen 
away.  It  was  with  that  purpose  he  packed  up  the 
sack  of  jewels.  The  glens  were  known  to  him.  The 
first  horses  caught,  with  a  noose-rope  bridle,  would 
have  carried  them  to  friends.  They  would  then  have 
left  the  Araxes  valley  forever." 

"  It  is  true  !  "  cries  Platoff.  "  Yet  our  guards  might 
have  caught  them  at  night." 

Schamyl  says  solemnly : 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  343 

"  It  was  flight  or  death  by  thirst !  Ghazee  met  the 
vengeance  of  God  !  Let  him  rest  forever  there,  under 
the  old  tower  where  he  played  as  a  boy.  He  was  a 
Circassian  to  the  death  !  The  hand  of  the  Almighty 
ends  his  vendetta.  It  releases  us  from  the  curse  of 
the  amulet !  " 

Down  through  the  shrubbery  the  friends  wander, 
through  copse  and  thicket. 

Sagacious  Platoff,  with  his  trained  eye,  discovers 
a  cleft  in  the  rock.  There  is  a  moss-grown  stone 
which  has  been  moved.  A  dozen  men  with  crow 
bars  pry  it  off.  A  tilting  rock !  Its  rough  hinges 
are  clogged  by  the  explosion.  It  was  thus  the  wily 
old  warrior  Schamyl  arranged  his  hiding-place. 

Ordering  it  securely  walled  up,  as  a  seal  to  the 
tomb  of  the  two  wild  spirits,  Prince  Schamyl  leaves 
the  spot,  which  is  now  hateful  to  him.  Twice  in  his 
life  had  the  great  foe  of  Russia  thus  escaped  death, 
by  using  similar  retreats  prepared  before.  Sultan 
Schamyl's  mysterious  exits  ! 

"  There  must  have  been  an  interior  entrance,  walled 
up. after  the  treasures  were  deposited  during  the  long 
siege.  The  defeated  sultan  knew  further  resistance 
was  useless.  Great  Dargo  was  doomed.  Perchance 
he  thought  he  might  return  some  day  and  reach  the 
treasures  himself." 

Thus  speaks  Abdallah,  his  hands  deep  in  jewels. 

"True!"  cries  Paul  Platoff.  "  But  the  Russian 
government  never  permitted  his  return  after  the 
surrender  of  Baryatinsky." 

A  guarded  train  draws  out,  a  week  later.  Ahmed 
Schamyl,  gazing  on  the  bright  and  splendid  face  of 
the  lovely  Rose,  whose  one  dark  enemy  is  at  rest, 


344  PRINCE   SCHAMYL  S   WOOING. 

conducts  her  in  triumph  to  Tiflis.  To  her  own  home 
with  the  radiant  Vera !  Sagacious  Abdallah,  with 
Platoff,  under  the  secret  orders  of  General  Ignatief, 
delivers  over  to  Governor-General  Loris  Melikoff  the 
governmental  share  of  the  recovered  booty. 

Colonel  Platoff,  recalled  to  the  court,  takes  away 
from  Schamyl  his  sweet  sister,  whose  new-found 
love  is  the  crowning  glory  of  Schamyl's  happy  mar 
riage. 

The  old  palace-home  is  vacant  now.  Dargo,  its 
keep  occupied  only  as  a  guard-post,  is  deserted  as  a 
residence.  Ahmed  Schamyl  likes  not  its  memories. 
The  eagle,  soaring  high  in  the  sapphire  sky  of  the 
Caucasus,  looks  down  on  the  lovely  glens  and  witch 
ing  woods,  where  the  wild  winds  murmur  the  requiem 
of  the  bold  refugee  and  his  wayward  Kurdish 
bride. 

Where  is  the  happiest  home  in  Russia  ?  For, 
even  in  Russia,  are  homes  crowned  with  truest 
love. 

Paul  Platoff  thinks  it  is  the  old  Orbelian  palace, 
where  Princess  Paul  rules,  under  the  sweet  eyes  of 
her  mother,  looking  down  from  her  picture  on  the 
circle,  whose  Russian  hospitality  embraces  often  the 
princely  lovers  from  Tiflis. 

Prince  Ahmed,  watching  the  splendid  and  lov 
ing  woman  who  bore  her  sorrows  so  long,  is  per 
suaded  that  the  happiest  home  under  the  Czar's 
rule  is  the  one  where  blooms  Maritza,  the  Rose 
of  Georgia. 

Gallant  Mehemet  Pacha,  meeting  his  brother  in 
arms,  at  the  border,  learns  the  fate  of  Ismail's 
daughter  and  wild  Schamyl.  He  bows  his  head. 


PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING.  345 

looking   at   his   beloved   Ahmed,   solemnly    saying, 
"  May  your  happiness  ever  abide  !  " 

He  waits  the  time  when  perhaps  the  cannon  will 
roar  once  more  over  Asia  Minor.  With  steadfast 
faith  to  do  his  soldier's  duty,  only  wishing"  Bonnes 
chances  aux  braves  !  " 

Gallant  Gronow,  released  at  last  from  duty  for 
urgent  reasons,  is  said  to  be  returning  to  Tiflis  with 
the  bright  and  laughing  Nina  Lazareff,  who  remem 
bers  a  certain  promise  made  to  the  dashing  staff 
officer.  Her  sister  nymph,  Tia  Argutin,  contem 
plates  a  similar  capture  of  one  who  is  dearer  to  her 
than  all  the  jewels  of  Russia's  crown. 

Abdallah,  full  of  years  and  glory,  enhanced  in 
wealth,  high  in  confidence,  bows  his  head  with 
fervent  devotion  at  the  noon  hour,  when  he  re 
members  how  the  prophet  aided  Dr.  Abdallah. 

The  fatal  Kismet   hangs  over  the  affairs  of  men 
and  nations  in  the  mighty  Orient. 
^Alexander,  the  old  Czar,  is  gone  !     Skobeleff  and 
Melikoff  sleep  with  the  unforgotten  brave  ! 

Still  toward  the  Dardanelles,  onward  to  India, 
Asia,  and  China,  the  Russian  flag  crawls  apace! 

For  under  a  new  Emperor,  with  steadfast  eyes 
fixed  toward  the  future,  great  Ignatief,  mighty 
Gourko,  and  far-seeing  Anenkoff  toil  and  labor  at 
the  secret  roads  of  Empire. 

In  the  name  of  the  Czar  ! 

The  wild  vines  have  covered  the  broken  bastions 
of  Dargo.  There  is  eternal  peace  in  the  sweep  of 
the  wild  winds  and  the  rush  of  the  river  past  the 
crumbling  battlements.  A  palace  once !  A  tomb 
now  ! 


346  PRINCE  SCHAMYL'S  WOOING. 

Over  its  ruined  archway  the  words  of  Sadi  might 
tell  the  mournful  story  of  to-day. 

"  The  spider  has  woven  its  web  in  the  palace  of 
the  Caesars. 

"  The  owl  shrieks  its  nightly  song  on  the  towers 
of  Aphrasiab." 


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THE    LITTLE    LADY   OF 
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By    RICHARD     HENRY     SAVAGE, 
Author  of  "My  Official  Wife,"  etc. 

Published  simultaneously  in  New  York,  Leipzig  and  London. 
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Richard  Henry  Savage's 


ROMANTIC  NOVELS : 


My  Official  Wife, 

The  Little  Lady  of  Lapnitas, 

Prince  Stiiamyl's  Wooing, 


ORIGINAL!    BRILLIANT!    SUCCESSFUL! 


MY  OFFICIAL  WIFE 

BY 

Colonel  RICHARD  HENRY  SAVAGE, 

Author   of   "  The    Little    Lady    of  Lagunitas,"  etc. 


Publishers  in  Europe. 

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MY  OFFICIAL  WIFE 

BY 

RICHARD  HENRY  SAVAGE, 

Author  of  "  The  Little  Lady  of  Lagunitas,"  etc.,  etc. 

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My  Official  Wife, 


BY 


Col.  Richard  Henry  Savage, 


The  Little  Lady  of 
Lagunitas, 


pranco-(;aliforman  Romance. 


BY 


Richard    Henry    Savage 


Prince  SchamyTs 
Wooing. 


tory  of  tfye  (Caucasus— 


BY 


Richard    Henry    Savage. 


My  Official  Wife, 


DRAMATIZED  BY 


Archibald  Clavering  Gunter 


UNDER     LICENSE    FROM 
THE   AUTHOR. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 


